


at the center

by therentyoupay



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Coming of Age, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Frost - Centric, M for language, Panic Attacks, Post - ROTG, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, but seriously you don't even know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 219
Words: 373,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legends and fairy tales, magic and myths, and—at the center of it all—a story of a young, future-Queen and her young, ageless-Guardian; a girl cursed with fear and a god frozen in time, and all of the reasons why seeing isn't always at the heart of believing. </p><p>{ A dash of angst, a touch of fluff, and a whole lifetime of pain and love and hope, all spiraled into a series of drabbles, ficlets, and one-shots; an on-going Jelsa fanfiction of—<em>literally</em>—epic proportions. }</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue : + centers +

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roarlikethunder](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=roarlikethunder).



> I told myself I wasn't going to end up writing Jack/Elsa.
> 
> But here I am. Completely unable to resist. (Rina, it's totally your fault.) I'm rationalizing this as a series of drabbles simply to loosen up the time spent between writing grad school applications and personal statement essays, YAY ME. (Also. I'm blaming Rina.)
> 
> By the way, I am absolutely in _love_ with [Like Burning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1080018) by [disarmed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disarmed/pseuds/disarmed), and have completely accepted everything in that fic as the perfect portrayal of 100% post-canon fact. :) :) If you haven't read it yet, please do so now, because it is gorgeous. 
> 
> Obviously, after reading this fic, I felt that there was very little that I could do to contribute to this beautiful world of icy pain and bittersweet love and tempting darkness and decided that if I was going to write anything for this paring, then I would need to play around with a different take... If this has done before, I apologize. This is just for fun. ;)
> 
> So, anyway. Here it is. A dash of angst, a touch of fluff, and a whole lifetime of pain and love and hope spiraled into a series of drabbles, ficlets, and one-shots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner Cosplay: ([x](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/75996643260/youllneverbetoooldfordisney-youre-not-a))

 

 

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**( prologue )**

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“ _You see, Jack... There is more to being a Guardian than you may think.  
We serve all children, as a whole, through the ages, forever and always._

 

_But there are...  
special cases._

 

_Children, who are... unique._

 

_Gifted.”_

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“ _What do you mean?”_

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* * *

 

 _at the_   _ **c e n t e r** _

 

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\- _centers_ -  
  
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Blue eyes stared up at him, large and round, in the bright light of the moon in the nighttime winter air—wide with _wonder._ Sparkling with _hope._  
  
( _“Are you real_?” she'd asked him, a steady whisper; a small, fragile wisp of breath curling on the frozen breeze, as tiny fingers tightened over the sill.)

But Jack Frost only grinned— _a half-smirk, with heart_ —and leaned closer.  
  
"That depends," he whispered, through a ghost of a smile.  
  
Elsa frowned.

(" _On what?_ " she'd asked him, but the memory was still hazy. He was too busy, even then, thinking.  _Wondering_.)

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Because the _fun_ , he could tell,  
was somewhere deep inside, hidden, buried, by fear.

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_(Just as he'd been told.  
_ _Just as he'd been warned.)  
  
_ It was waiting to come out. __  


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( _And he could help her._ )

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If she'd let him.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This [lovely doodle](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84636008272/a-simple-sketch-to-fuel-my-friends-jelsa) was created by the lovely artist, **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)**. Please go share some love at the original post!


	2. - gifts -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/19/14_.

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**( I )**

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. * * * .  
  
\- _gifts_ -

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“So... you're my Guardian?”

“Yep,” Jack confirmed easily, swooping onto the ledge with a voiceless call to the breeze. It was so much easier to talk to Elsa in the library, rather than having to worry about Anna spotting him in the nursery she and her sister shared—well. For now, at least.

 _Soon enough_ , he reminded himself with a grin, even as impatience flipped his stomach sideways.

It didn't take much to redirect his focus back to the little girl in front of him— _Elsa_ , his special case. Just a little sprout— _or like, a tiny snowflake, maybe._ That seemed to fit her better. Not very tall for her age, not all that unusual apart from her mystical powers—the ones that not even _North_ could explain—and maybe, also, the way she already seemed so much wiser than your average six-year-old, always curious and inquisitive, very proud and thoughtful and quiet and reserved and, seriously, did he mention curious?

A sudden, powerful grin overtook his face, inevitable and unavoidable, and Jack let his leg dangle over the railing, swinging carelessly above white-dusted tree tops and frost-tipped grass. “You're stuck with me,” he declared, staring straight into her big, blue eyes, unabashed.

He'd said it jokingly—even if, technically, it was true—but she seemed to be considering this very intently for a six-year-old. Very intently.

And not for the first time, Jack's excitement flickered under a shadow of doubt.

 _Man_. He was going to have to be a little more careful. For a guy who was eternally seventeen _ish_ —and, theoretically speaking, had all the time in the world—it'd been a while since he'd really had the time to have an actual conversation with any of the kids who could still see him. He was turning out to be no better than Toothiana, holding out a palmful of bloody teeth and bits of gums, and... well. In his defense, he'd never really met a kid as serious as Elsa. And he'd never really shove a handful of bloody gums in her face.

 _Easy now, Jack_. The goal was to lighten her up a bit. Not freak her out.

She was still standing at the railing, her fingers clasped loosely around the thin wooden dowels between the floor and banister. It was the library balcony she liked best, Jack knew, because the stone and mortar ones that jut out from around the rest of the castle couldn't allow her to gaze at the seaside like this, not unless her father was there to raise her up onto his shoulder. _So small_ , Jack thought with a sudden pang, abruptly remembering, the way he sometimes did, that— _one day_ —she would grow up.

“What does that mean?” she asked him directly, very clearly, as if this was not the first time she'd spoken it; only barely into her princess training and Elsa was already polite to the point of painful. Jack would have found it a little funny, if not a little worrisome.

Still. He hadn't really thought about it before. Her question.

“Well,” he began, and he couldn't really help it when he added a layer of easygoing laughter to cover his uncertainty. He swung his staff over his shoulder, for good measure. “It means a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like... that I'll be there for you when you need me. When you're in trouble.”

Elsa frowned.

“What kind of trouble?” she asked quietly. She didn't notice it, when her bare fingers clenched more tightly around the wooden dowels in her grasp, or when tiny marks of icy swirls crept into the grain. But Jack did.

So much for keeping it light.

“Any kind,” he promised easily, leaning forward, hoping to keep her gaze focused on him and not the frozen sparks seeping into the wood at her hands. “I mean, I can't make any promises about the whole ruling a kingdom thing, of course, but—you know. Sister stuff. Parent trouble. The usual,” Jack smirked, offering a long wink to show that—although it was all very, very true—he was teasing. “You seem like you're gonna be the rebellious type.”  
  
She peered up at him with an exasperated, dubious sort of look, but Jack was a master of coaxing out reluctant smiles—and he saw hers, _right there_.

“Can anyone else see you?” she asked suddenly, eyes alighting with tiny sparks of excitement. _Wonder,_ supplied a tiny voice in Jack's head, one that sounded suspiciously like North's.

 _Ah,_ Jack's brows rose, smile almost faltering. She was quick. _Clever_. Even he forgot, sometimes, how much so. It wasn't a bad thing—it just made Jack remember the precarious position he was in, how careful he had to be with his words. He was a Guardian now.

“Some,” he answered ambiguously, enjoying the guessing game they'd begun; he liked the cleverness of her questions, and liked even more the ways she tried to decipher his answers. Without warning, he sprang skyward, then floated down on the wind to balance over the banister like a beam, dancing along the edge without fear. It was an incredible, indescribable feeling to this day, even after so many years...

“My family?” she ventured, once again breaking into the line of his thoughts. Seriously, he was starting to think _way_ too much. He hadn't been this weirdly quizzical since before he found the others. _N_ _ext thing I know, I'll be taking tea and intellectual crumpets with Bunny over philosophical discussions about—_

Jack paused, his skipping over the banister coming to a halt. He hadn't answered her, he realized, then looked down at her, into her big, curious eyes. _Hope,_ he saw.

She had a lot of that.

. * * * .


	3. - alliances -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/20/14_.

**. * * * .**

\- _alliances_ -

**. * * * .**

 

It took three minutes to convince her that he was real, roughly three days for her to show him her magic without fear, and just under three hours to make her laugh.

It took three months to prove that he would always come back.

. * * * .

“My parents used to go away a lot,” she explained, as her fingers twirled tiny flurries between them, where they were sitting cross-legged on the glazed hardwood floor by the library window. Anna was sick with a cold, resting under a heap of blankets in bed, and Jack Frost wasn't sure whether he should acknowledge the guilty glances Elsa kept sending toward the door. _It's normal,_ Jack wanted to say. _It's winter, and every kid gets a cold every once in a while. (Except for you, maybe,_ but that still wasn't something he was entirely sure about, though he _was_ sure that there _would_ be a right time to bring it up, eventually. That the right time definitely wasn't right now.) And...

It probably didn't help that he'd been spending a bit more time floating around their bedroom window, either.

Jack didn't tell her, but while she conjured snow, he was summoning the wind—just a gentle breeze, nothing more—forcing her to keep tighter control of her movements, to keep her creations from drifting away. To Elsa, it was just a game.

To Jack, it was the start of a journey, long and harrowing.

But vital.

“Used to?” Jack echoed, then wriggled his fingers, sending another gust her way. She adjusted immediately, transforming the force into a softer flurry, which spiraled and danced between her fingers. She was concentrating very intently, though Jack couldn't be sure whether it was on her actions or her thoughts. The snow seemed stable enough, Jack decided, though he was beginning to understand just how tightly intertwined Elsa's magic was tied to her emotions. (And he was no different, of course, nor were any of the other Guardians. He knew that. It was natural—at least, for a supernatural existence, or something. Whatever, North could explain it a lot better than he could.)

He blinked suddenly, and a flash of lightning cut through his mind— _dark sky, thick with billowing clouds_ —and a power, frightening in its intensity— _hot and cold and thrumming, crackling, searing and—_ surging up from his core, coursing through his veins— _through his whole body, his soul_ —a part of him, an _extension_ of him, a living piece of his very existence, _a reminder that_ —

Jack paused.

Elsa had stopped, and was staring at him curiously. A familiar, thoughtful frown.

He grinned widely, a little sheepishly, to show her that he was all right. Elsa was curious, but she wasn't the kind— _she had been taught not_ —to pry, inherent inquisitiveness or no, and it still worried him, sometimes, to see how readily she took to her duties, to see how much of herself was being buried beneath what she felt was the right thing to do. And he must have been convincing enough, or something, because even thoughtful, logical, perceptive Elsa looked right at his sudden mask and smiled back at him, trusting and warm.

Jack's stomach gave an uneasy lurch.

“My parents acted as their own ambassadors whenever they could,” Elsa explained, as her fingers picked up where they left off. Jack lifted his hands to join her and marveled at the fact that she was only barely seven—and even then, technically not yet. Her birthday was still a month away. “They believe that a kingdom is strongest when its protectors are able to represent its people in the truest means possible. Every spring, they would leave for our sister Kingdom and spend a fortnight detailing our arrangements of trade.” Elsa hesitated. “And... our alliances. But they never actually explained to me what they're for.”

Jack glanced down to the floor, where Elsa's eyes stared up into his, searchingly.

“Uh,” he replied slowly, as tiny bursts of uncertain panic speckled his lungs. He was pretty sure this discussion was outside of Guardian territory—or, more specifically, _his_ territory. He was the last person who should be trying to guide a kid through a sensitive lesson like this. (What was he supposed to say? What was the smart thing to do? He should just tell her to ask her parents, right? Or maybe the governess, the one who always got herself tangled up in the drapes and let the princesses eat extra helpings of gooseberry custard tarts. Or should he say as his own mother used to— _or so his little box of memories told him, anyway—_ that she'd understand one day, when she got older—)

“It's all right,” Elsa said suddenly, softly, resuming her thoughtful magic with fluid, natural grace. “I went to the library and read about them when my teachers weren't looking. I couldn't read all the words, but I understood enough.”

Jack was speechless. Six months, and this little girl still managed to surprise him.

“Your kingdom is really peaceful, you know,” Jack said, a little awkwardly. Normally, he was pretty good at the whole comfort thing... he just couldn't find any ways to laugh about something like war. There weren't any.

“I know,” she calmly replied, her thoughtful frown growing more serious. “Our alliances are... pacts, rather than tools of war. Of friendship and aid.”

Jack allowed himself a smile. (Not just a grin, but a smile. A real one.)

“Sort of sounds like us,” he mused aloud, then sent another gust of wind her way. Her blonde bangs fluttered over eyes and she smiled back at him, small but genuine and _six months_ , Jack remembered. Six months, but she was trusting him more and more every day. Every time he watched her practice with her powers, or when he taught her something new. Every time he promised to come back, and did.

Six months. He tried to imagine what they could gain in six years.

( _Or more_ , Jack's mind whispered, but even he had been around long enough to know that it was useless to hope for anything longer; he'd be lucky if six years was all he got.)

“So do your parents prefer that Arendelle's allies come to you guys, then?” he asked abruptly, weaving together streams of wind with a few flicks of his fingers. Elsa frowned.

“They... there are other ambassadors now,” she said, and Jack's fingers stilled. “Diplomats, I think they're called, who travel for them. They said that they would rather postpone their own travels until... until I'm older.”

Jack watched as her hands fell limply to her lap, quiet and empty. She didn't need to say it, for Jack to hear the rest.

_Until I can control it._

Biting his lip in thought and feeling more than a little lost, Jack actually— _actually_ —almost considered turning to Bunny for advice. He relied on all the Guardians in one way or another, but this was _his_ special assignment, his very first, and the last creature he wanted to go running off to for help was the most self-righteous of them all. But then again... Hope _did_ seem to be something she struggled with allowing herself to have and—

A thought occurred to Jack.

“Hey,” he said softly, capturing her attention once more. In but a moment, he'd conjured a ship out of cold, thin air, made of frost and glazed with sparkling snow, sailing toward her. “Make some waves,” he told her, laughingly, and watched with proud, expectant eyes.

As her mouth relaxed and her eyes took on a familiar gleam, Elsa's little hands raised into the air and made the sea—just a single wave at first, glittering of soft, malleable snow—but soon it turned into an ocean harbor, rocking Jack's ship aloft in smooth, comforting ripples. Elsa laughed.

“You're gonna be okay,” Jack said suddenly, without meaning to, truly meaning so much more than such simple words could convey.

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_We will get through this. You will be a great Queen. Your people will love you._

_You will learn to control your powers.  
_

_I am here to help you._

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And when Elsa looked up and smiled, Jack knew that she believed him.

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	4. - accomplishments -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/21/14_.

**. * * * .**

\- _accomplishments_ -

**. * * * .**

Weeks passed. The nights came and went, and little Elsa turned seven. Jack was busy that day with a monstrous snowstorm in Siberia that had been planned for ages, but he still swung by her windowsill while she slept, and left a gift of ice at the window to greet her at dawn. Snowflakes had always been her favorite, and Jack spared no ounce of energy in creating the best. (And he _was_ the best, after all.)

Jack loved to impress her. It was in his nature, an inherent part of his personality, and— _also_ —by the way, Jack challenged anyone to go on being invisible for nearly three hundred years and _not_ be affected in one way or another—( _See how well_ you _handle it, yeah?_ )—but that wasn't all of it, even. It was hard not to be a little showy when Elsa so clearly appreciated any and all displays of his magic—like no one else ever had before.

An understanding mixed with the wonder, and the want that came with it. The need to learn how _she_ could do it too, and the thirst in her eyes—absent of fear, completely, that was his doing, _his_ —and the unbidden excitement and the eager pride and the _Jack, will you teach me?_

_Please?_

Little by little, Elsa got older. Her powers were still growing, just like the rest of her, and she was making visible improvements, here and there. She could anticipate the movements of those around her and adapt her movements in response—to catch, to aim, to create. She was getting better at reigning in her panic, too, whenever the fear of losing control began to grow too thick. She was learning how to laugh in front of others besides her little sister, Anna, and that was probably Jack's favorite accomplishment of all.

(They were hers, of course. The accomplishments. But Jack liked to take pride in them, too.

He was very proud of her.)

As she got older, by days and weeks and hours, she became no less impressed with his antics—just better at pretending she wasn't. Two weeks after her seventh birthday, Jack showed up at her window with a trick and a challenge, and received a grin to match his own. She smiled like she was used to it by now, his strange existence and their even stranger bond, but Jack knew better, and Elsa—being Elsa—of course knew that he knew the truth. Still. It was one of the many games they shared and enjoyed, and just as much as ever, she loved his gifts—in whatever form he made them.

And, for a while, they had fun.

 

 

**. * * * .**


	5. - promises -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/23/14_.

**. * * * .**   
  


\- _promises_ -

**  
. * * * .**

“ _Can we, Jack? Please?”_

Four-and-three-quarters; Anna was bright and quick, especially for her age— _still so young_ —and kind and perceptive and precocious, just like her sister—but Elsa's sharpness had always held a uniqueness. A level of understanding that was, in all of Jack's years, unparalleled.

It had not been quite so dangerous for the heiress to learn the truth behind the stories, and their role in creating hers; North cautioned against assuming the same for others.

“ _Please, Jack? I promise she'll be good. I'll teach her and—and she already knows to keep my powers a secret! She won't tell anyone, I promise.”_

“ _It's not that, Elsa,”_ Jack said quietly, as a lump gathered in his throat. How to explain? _“Our stories—the myths and fairy tales—that's what keep us alive. That's what gives us our magic. The belief.”_

Elsa frowned, thoughtful, the kind that appeared only when true understanding— _acceptance_ —eluded her. It had taken months, but Jack had eventually come to recognize it; she wore many expressions, and this one was rare.

But how to explain?

There were many challenges ahead for which Jack was preparing himself... Like the first time Elsa might be teased by other children, and how he would teach her to stick up for herself, like a Princess—and how to throw a snowball at the back of someone's skull without getting caught. Or the day that she would eventually have a real disagreement with her parents, or— _if he made it that far_ —the first time someone broke her heart. Things like what to do when she was afraid of hurting someone's feelings, and how to keep herself from getting homesick the first time she traveled away from the castle. There was an ever-growing list in his mind of all the endless inevitables.

When her squabbles with her little sister became something more.

If they became something darker.

The Arendelle sisters were so very close, now, but there were many, many years ahead of them. Anna was almost five and had still not displayed any magical ability of her own; it seemed doubtful that she ever would. Though her aptitude showed great potential, and her personality was bright and endearing— _people gravitated towards Anna, first, always_ —the divides that separated the sisters were growing, little by little, day by day, even if they could not see them on their own. How to explain to little Elsa that he was just as much her sister's Guardian as he was hers? To Anna, that there were things about her sister that she could never understand, could never experience for her own? Their love for one another was strong, undeniably.

 _But what would it be like_ , Jack wondered, _to live that deeply in a sister's shadow?_

No throne. No magic. (Freedom. Life without Fear.)

Siblings had been torn apart for far less.

Jack looked down at Elsa, staring up at him hopelessly, a single snowflake lost in a storm, and did what he normally did: he caved.

He swallowed hard the lump in his throat as best he could.  
  
“ _Elsa_ ,” he began, and hoped that he wasn't asking for too much, too soon. “ _Do you think your sister would like to hear a story?_ ”

 

**. * * * .**

Elsa and Anna, together: it was well within the realm of ordinary, but _this_ was a unique, precious moment. Jack had just come to visit her, very intentionally having promised her earlier that day that he would be back in the morning. He did not want to interfere, to spoil this special moment for her but, as usual, could not help himself.

When he arrived, Elsa was telling Anna a story.

He slipped into the fine drapes at the window, disappearing into the shadows amongst the woodwork. There was a time when Jack could never have imagined a use for it, a Guardian's ability to hide themselves in plain sight, and he had certainly never felt the desire to think otherwise; he'd already spent far too much of his afterlife in invisible isolation, and he had no intentions of returning.

Until he became the Guardian assigned with the protection of a special, scared little girl.

 _Just for tonight_ , he thought. He would watch over her without her knowledge, so as not to interfere. This was her moment; this was his story, but it was hers to share.

He took up a place at Anna's bedpost, wrapping a firm grip around the intricate carvings, his bare feet curling around the pillar, hanging off to the side to listen in. (He froze when Anna shivered, even beneath the thick blankets, but Elsa was too absorbed to notice. Still. Not wishing to take any additional chances tonight, Jack Frost dutifully held his breath.)

They were tucked into her little sister's bed, propped high by fluffy pillows and a mountain of down—goose feathers, which never failed to fascinate Anna, who found it just as amusing as she found it worrying because _how do the geese stay warm in the winter, Elsa, without their feathers?_ and then the answer, which was never quite satisfying enough, even though Elsa was finding it easier and easier to give: _Because they don't need these, Anna. They leave, but just for a little while. They go where it's warm, with summer and sunshine. And they always come back._

That was the important part.

Anna looked up at her older sister with large, round eyes, and it occurred to Jack that in the midst of his thoughts, he'd somehow missed half the beginning of the story.

As promised, Elsa was telling Anna the legends, the stories that Jack had taught her. As with most things— _as with all things_ —Elsa took to the task very seriously, recalling his portrayals with precision, with a regal confidence befitting of a princess, and a reverence belonging to a child.

Jack decided that she told the stories better. North, Toothiana, Bunnymund... Sandy, the Sand Man. He especially liked the way she told Anna his.

Obviously, Elsa saved the best for last.

“ _Elsa_ ,” Anna breathed, eyes wide, when she had finished. It seemed that she had been holding her breath as well. “He's... he sounds just like _you_.”

Even Elsa could not hold back her giggles, so palpable was her delight. Jack smiled from his corner and considered coming down to reveal himself. It was difficult, but he decided that he could wait. Barely.

“It _does_ seem that way,” Elsa replied ambiguously, laughingly, too clever for a girl of only seven. (It still surprised him sometimes, just how adept she was at hiding the truth with a smile. It worried him, too.)

 _Go ahead_ , thought Jack, leaning forward in anticipation. His fingers gripped tight to the wood, his body hanging heavily from the bedpost. _Tell her. Tell her the truth._

_(Jack Frost is my Guardian and he's yours, too.)_

But Anna looked up at her sister, wide-eyed with surprise.

“Does that mean you're going to become a Guardian, too?” she whispered.

The question threw both of them off-guard.

“No,” Elsa replied, after a brief moment of hesitation. She blinked, then leaned closer to Anna's curious, frightened face. “No, that's not how it works at all,” she assured her, but her face showed uncertainty, and Anna read it as clear as day.

“Are you going to have to leave?” Anna whispered, big eyes filling with tears.

Jack shifted forward, prepared to leap down and—he didn't know—do _something_ , but Elsa took Anna by the shoulders and looked her little sister directly in the eye.

“No,” she said more firmly. “Anna, look at me,” she ordered, a young Queen of seven, and waited until her sister complied. “I'm not going to leave you,” she promised. “I'm not going anywhere.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, frozen in a pact that Jack should not have been privy to, Guardian or no, and it was when Anna sagged forward into Elsa's tiny arms that Jack realized how he had drifted closer, invisible, to get a better look at the unreadable expression on Elsa's face.

“I think I'm ready for bed now, Elsa,” Anna murmured, nuzzling her nose into the fabric of Elsa's blue nightgown; she shivered, and Jack noticed.

The frown on Elsa's lips made Jack think that she noticed, too.

The deep line between Elsa's brows disappeared as she tucked her little sister into bed, but the thoughtful worry in her eyes did not. Anna didn't need to ask Elsa to stay with her, because Elsa did it anyway.

“Elsa?" Anna asked sometime later, when both Princesses should have been fast asleep. "Are... are the Guardians really real?”

It took a long time for Elsa to answer.

And it was in this moment that the first chip of Jack Frost's heart broke away, when Elsa gently stroked her sister's auburn hair, quiet and soothing, and did what she could to comfort her.

“They're just stories, Anna,” she whispered, staring deeply into the dark sky beyond the window. The stars were especially clear that night, and Elsa stared at them, like she never had before. “That's all,” she promised.

They drifted off to sleep, holding hands.

And eventually, Jack left.

****. * * * .****


	6. - half-truths -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/25/14_.

**. * * * .**

_\- half-truths -_

**. * * * .**

 

Despite the rather impulsive creature that he was, Jack Frost had still somehow managed to perfect the art of thinking too much;  
he had, after all, had many years to practice.

So naturally, Jack Frost had expected any number of difficult conversations to arise during his next visit.

And naturally, the conversation that _did_ arise  
was one that he hadn't expected at all.

**. * * * .**

“Are you a ghost?”

Jack Frost blinked, forcefully and rapidly, though it didn't really help; this still wasn't any easier to understand the second time around.

“ _What_ —?” he managed at last, as his tongued knotted uselessly in his mouth. “ _No_ —I'm _... I don't_ —what makes you think that?” he slipped out, feeling as breathless as he did mindless. Elsa stared, unflinching.

“You told me once that people could walk right through you,” she reminded him, still eyeing him carefully. “That people couldn't hear you, or see you.”

Jack Frost frowned, deeply unsettled. “That was a long time ago,” he began, awkwardly, feeling the newfound strangeness between them— _the distance_ —grow deeper. He tried desperately not to fumble, and failed. “It was when I first woke up, before I really knew who I was or what I was supposed to do.” ( _Supposed to be_ , his mind added, but he ignored it. Now was not the time to have an existential crisis; he'd already had plenty of _those_ over the centuries and right now, as Elsa questioned his existence, was _not_ the right time for him to try to question it, too.)

Elsa was staring at him, skeptical.

“It was before people _believed_ in me,” Jack explained, a little too loudly, a little too quickly. “That's the rule about being a Guardian.” _That's the catch. Because there are always rules to responsibility and—ugh. (Stop it, Jack.)_

_Wait._

“Think of it this way,” he switched directions, as a new, incredible idea occurred to him. _Yes. This!_ “As a ruler of a kingdom, your people have to believe in you, right? In order for you to be the best ruler you can be?”

Elsa considered this. He remembered her earlier words, about diplomats and ambassadors and representatives. The proper way to protect. Big words for a seven-year-old, and even bigger concepts.

“So... you're saying that... _your_ subjects have to trust you?” Elsa quietly ventured, staring at the floor. “In order for your powers to work?”

Jack's grin nearly let loose, but he kept himself in check. “My _friends_ ,” he corrected, smiling gently. “Although 'subjects' _does_ sort of have a nice ring to it.” She wasn't looking, but he could hear his teasing smile in his voice, and he knew that she could hear it, too. “Anyway. My _friends—_ or _anybody_ that I protect—they have to trust me, and believe in me—even if only just _a little_ —in order to see me. My magic worked even before I was a Guardian, but nobody believed in me, so nobody saw me, and... Ah. Does that make sense?”

She took some time to think. “I suppose,” she conceded slowly, still looking hard at the floor.

Jack frowned.

“Elsa—what is this about?” he asked suddenly, trying to catch her eye. “Did something happen with Anna?”

 _No._ Why did he say it like that? He'd meant to tell her the truth about the other night the instant he arrived. He'd meant to tell her that he'd been there the whole time, when she tried to tell her sister about the Guardians—and that she didn't have to worry, or feel guilty, or be sad or lonely, or think that he might be upset with her for... for... well. For anything. Anna would understand one day, when she was older, and then they could all share this secret together. He'd meant to tell her this. He hadn't meant to keep this from her, and he didn't know why he pretending any differently now.

But no. That was a lie.

He knew the reason exactly.

“How did you become a Guardian?” she asked, point-blank.

Once he'd regained his senses, Jack breathed deeply. _Easy question_. “I already told you the story,” he said, grinning softly. “I woke up in an icy lake, and the Moon gave me special powers.”

“But _how_ did you arrive in the lake?” Elsa asked, almost—but never quite—impatiently. “Were you born there?”

Jack's mouth ran dry, but he kept his expression light. “That's the first memory I have,” Jack told her and, _technically_ , it was true. “I woke up in the lake and I was who I was. I didn't start my journey toward becoming a Guardian until much later, but I've been as I've always been... now I'm just a bit stronger, and I can control my magic much more easily, but all that would have happened had I become a Guardian or not.” At least, he thought it would.

He didn't often think of the alternatives.

“I don't know what I am, exactly,” Jack Frost admitted. “But I'm not a ghost.”

“How do you know?”

 _Because the Man in the Moon would have told me._ But that didn't seem like a good enough explanation.

“Do you trust me?” he asked instead.

There was barely a pause, though Jack's heart must have pounded in as many as a hundred beats before he got his answer.

“Yes,” Elsa replied quietly, choosing her words carefully, and whispered, “But now I think... that might not be such a good thing.”

And to be honest, Jack was beginning to wonder, himself.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly, honestly, with grave, careful seriousness. Elsa looked up at him in surprise, uncertainty in her wide, cerulean eyes. “You are going to learn how to control your powers,” he promised, with rare solemnity, and kept his voice soothing and level, watching as uneasiness crept into her careful gaze, as her eyes widened slightly in increasing alarm. _Wait, Elsa. Listen. Let me finish._

“You are going to become Queen, and your people will love you. I will be around to help you, always, but... all of that stuff will happen, whether I'm right here, or not.”

She frowned, and for the first time in a long time, Elsa's expression seemed to match her age. She looked very, very small.

And afraid.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“It's all you, Elsa,” he tried to explain, and hoped—without much conviction—that he was getting this right. _Your strength—that's what I'm trying to say._ “All of that will happen because of _you._ Not your magic. Not because of a Guardian.”

“I don't... understand.”

“You will do all the things that you want to do,” he told her; a promise that went without saying, a promise that she needed to hear. “You will do and be all those things because of who _you_ are. You don't need me to do any of that.”

Elsa stared at him, stricken.

“Do you want me to go away?” Jack asked, very honestly. He didn't realize how far his heart had traveled into his throat until he swallowed it. “Because you know that you can do that, right?” he whispered. “It's okay if you still don't believe me completely just yet. If you'd rather that I not be here, that can happen. All you have to do is say so, and I'll be gone.”

She was quiet for a long, long moment; more than three hundred years, he'd waited, and somehow, this seemed to hurt just as badly.

“No,” Elsa replied, watching him very carefully, as if he might still actually disappear, anyway. “Please, don't. I... I don't want to be alone.”

(She hadn't said, _I don't want you to go._ She hadn't said, _I want you to stay._ )

But Jack Frost decided he could live with that.

(As his mind remembered, and whispered,  _Things may change._ _You can wait._ )

 

**. * * * .**

“Okay,” whispered Jack, with a nod. “You won't be.”

**  
. * * * .**

.

.

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(Jack Frost asked Elsa if she trusted him even though it'd been obvious, of course, that she had.  
She saw him. She believed in him. She had faith.  
And there was trust inherent in that, even if only in small measure, even if some of that trust had already been tested.  
  
She trusted him. She did.

But sometimes, that sort of proof wasn't enough. Sometimes, Jack needed to hear it, too.

Sometimes, believing was more than just seeing.)

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

**. * * * .**


	7. - others -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/26/14_.

**. * * * .**   
  
_\- others -  
_

**. * * * .**

 

It was never quite spoken, but a shift occurred between them, after that; Elsa didn't mention any more talk of sharing the stories of the Guardians with her sister, and Jack never went so far as to ask. They went about their usual business as usual, smiling and practicing and laughing—sometimes more than others—but there was a change in the air that Jack assumed had little do with the approaching winter's end.

He was beginning to feel like she was finally starting to trust him fully. Not just as a Guardian.

But as a friend.

**. * * * .**

“Are there others—like me?”

The question caught him off-guard, though it shouldn't have. (Hadn't he wondered the same thing? For both his sake and for hers? But then again, he'd known he was different from the very beginning; not quite _alive_ the way others were, though not quite the ghost that Elsa had eventually wondered him to be.)

Jack pasted on his best grin.

“Elsa,” he said, almost teasing. “There is _no one_ quite like you.”

She made a face, and he laughed, and after a moment, she did, too.

Neither of them bothered to mention the fact that he hadn't answered her question.

Because that had been answer enough.

**. * * * .**

At least, until that night.

“I used to dream about them, sometimes,” Elsa whispered, once Anna had finally drifted off to sleep, cocooned in the mountain of blankets beside her. It hadn't taken long for Jack to see that Elsa rarely had the opportunity to sleep in her bed alone; she never seemed to mind.

“Dream about what?” he whispered back, though he no longer feared that Anna might hear him; it had been a long time since Anna had asked for any magic but her sister's. She was in no danger of seeing him.

“That there were others like me,” Elsa's soft voice carried over the pillow. Jack leaned his weight on the body of his staff, staring down at her face. There was still hope, but it was a bare glimmer of its former self, replaced by a quiet thoughtfulness, wistful and forlorn. “With magic,” she revealed, clutching her pillowcase tight. “There are books in our library, with pictures and... everything. But that's all I ever see.”

“Well,” Jack said, swallowing, trying not to make it look like it was very uncomfortable. He was getting better at it—this whole reassurance thing, not the swallowing softly thing—though he _was_ getting better at that, too, he supposed... Anyway. It would have helped on many different fronts if he'd actually had a better idea of what he was talking about. “When you think about it, there's plenty of magic in this world—and most people only ever get to see a fraction of it. I mean, not even the people of Arendelle knew my name until very recently—and that's saying something. Am I right?"

“ _Jack_.”

“See? It's a good name. Rolls right off the tongue.”

He didn't tell her that there were _other_ worlds. He didn't tell her—although, some days, he suspected she _knew—_ that in Arendelle, his name had been learned from a book in her castle's library, a collection of foreign fairy tales and myths and legends regarding curses— _gifts_ —made of winter and ice. A book dropped by accident onto one of the trade ships traveling with a shipment of palace goods from a _foreign country_ , its true origins unknown... just as North had intended.

Just around seven years ago.

(Jack didn't tell Elsa that there were other worlds filled with magic—that _he_ was from one of them—that there was magic both beautiful and dark, wonderful and destructive. Pure. Terrifying.

Tempting.

Those lessons, among many others, were best saved for later.

 _Or, even better_ , thought Jack, grim with memory. _Never at all_.)

“Anyway. My point is that with all the magic in the universe, there's bound to something out there, somewhere, that the rest of us don't know about yet... But. There's no point in waiting around for it, either.”

Elsa said nothing, only played with the fringe at her pillowcase. Anna snuggled closer, behind her. “I know,” she said at last, so softly that he could barely hear her.

Jack smiled down at her for a long moment, feeling an indescribable fullness expand his chest. He'd felt it the first time Jamie had said his name, clear eyes full of recognition—and faith; he'd felt it when Pitch's dark terror clouds of sand-dust fear had turned to rivers of shimmering gold, when dinosaurs made of dreams had marched proudly past icy streetlamps in the safety of the night; he'd felt it when a small Princess in the north of a neighboring realm had looked looked up at him, in the wondering awe of winter, and asked him, “ _Are you real?”_

“ _You_ are made of magic,” he told her, crouching down to better look her in the eye; she watched him, so carefully, as if he might suddenly disappear, that he'd made it a point long ago of always being exactly where she needed him to be. When he could. “ _You_ are here,” he whispered, his laughing grin replaced by a gentle smile, with something that _sort of might have maybe_ felt like warmth. “Maybe one day we'll meet somebody in this neck of the woods with powers like yours, but... until then, all we can do is do our best to learn how to use them. Your power-snowball still has a long way to go, you know.”

 _Ah_. There it was. A smile. Oh. Wait a minute—a smile _and_ a giggle.

“ _Jack_ pot,” he whispered, with a grin firmly back in place.

“Jack,” she warned, though her smile only grew wider.

“All right. Maybe that one was a little rough.” He had a feeling his eyes were twinkling, sort of like North's did. “It doesn't make what I said before any less true, though.”

“I know,” Elsa admitted, sighing softly into silk. Jack watched her settle deeper into the pillow, and felt that contentment again, that familiar sense of _right_. (He was a Guardian. He could feel it. He'd meant to become one all along.)

“I suppose I've always known exactly as you've said... I just used to feel so disappointed. Especially after the dreams, but I don't really have them anymore. I haven't for a long time.”

Jack Frost stilled where he crouched at her bedside, peering into her troubled face. Gone was the smile in her eyes, gone was the laughter on her lips. She was sleepy, speaking with eyes half-closed.

“No?” he whispered, as his frown deepened, watching as she drifted farther and farther away. Jack Frost swallowed, again. “What do you dream about now?”

Elsa only shrugged, a tiny shifting of her little girl shoulders into the comfort of heavy goose-feathered down.

“Well...” she whispered, and only barely managed to open her eyes. “I dream about... nothing, I suppose.”

**. * * * .**

And then there were moments like these.  
  
( _Even with so much trust. Even with so much faith._ )

Only seven, and Elsa was already very good at hiding.

**. * * * .**


	8. - dreams -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/29/14_.

**. * * * .**

_\- dreams -  
_

**. * * * .**

 

He asked the Sandman only once, then never again.

“Jack,” came Toothiana's voice, soft and chiding, while Sandy merely looked at him, curious and concerned. “You know better than that. Children's dreams are their own private sanctuaries... even we aren't ever meant to know what goes on them, unless they wish it.”

Jack frowned, staring at Sandy's frown. He hadn't meant for Tooth to hear. A wave of embarrassment swept over him and, vaguely, he tried to remember what it'd felt like to blush. He'd never handled the feeling very well, either in Guardianship or in life.

(Or so he assumed.)

“I was just wondering, all right?” Jack tried to dismiss the troubled pairs of eyes drilling into his; the right mix of casual, the tiniest drop of easy aloofness, the state of _forget it_ and _boom!—already forgotten_.Jack Frost laughed off their worries with a smirk and wave, with his staff swung easily over his shoulder. “Was just a little worried, is all. Nothing serious.

“Has she been having nightmares?” Tooth asked immediately, fluttering closer and— _great_. This was exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid.

A swirl of dark sand clouded above Sandy's head. He didn't need words to read the question on Sandy's face.

_Pitch?_

“Guys, honestly,” Jack laughed, but there was a sharper edge to it this time, one that he couldn't hide. (He was not as good at this sort of thing as Elsa, even after centuries of not really having a choice.) “It's not that big a deal. I was just being nosy.”

“You're a Guardian for a reason, Jack,” Toothiana replied softly with a sigh. “You should always trust your instincts. If something's wrong, please tell us.”

The breath was moving in and out of his lungs, and it occurred to him, suddenly, as it sometimes used to—he didn't need it. This air, this feeling—it was familiar and it was fragile, but _he didn't need it_. It was an illusion. He could exist without it, could function and feel—but was it really the same? It'd been so long since he'd known anything different. He couldn't remember. Inside his chest was a beating heart but _what if that was frozen, like the rest of him_? What would that mean?  
  
“Jack?"

“Yeah,” Jack nodded abruptly, fiercely, absently, as a sinking feeling swirled in his gut. _Yeah._

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He swallowed and mumbled, “Yeah, of course.”

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But Jack Frost had been known  
to break his promises.

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_\- end of part one -_

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**. * * * .**


	9. - painted snowflakes -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/29/14_. I've been trying to post at least one drabble every 1-2 days, but an emergency babysitting session for a family who just recently welcomed their third daughter into the world postponed my posting plans. :) So here's two in one day! 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has shown interest in the story and an even greater thanks to all those who have bookmarked, commented, or left comments. I really appreciate it! I am hoping to have this little project finished before spring and all the support really helps!

**.  
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**.**

**( II )**

****

**.**   


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**. * * * .**

_\- painted snowflakes -_

**. * * * .**

**.  
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**.  
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The next time Jack Frost saw Elsa of Arendelle,

she was wearing gloves.

**.  
**

**.  
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**.  
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**.  
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**.  
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**.  
**

Hoping to make an even grander entrance than usual, Jack summoned a special spiral of wind from over the ocean's waves and burst through the library windows with a terrific gust of air, arriving in the showiest display of brilliance that he could muster. Which, of course, was a lot.

Not to toot his own horn, or anything.

“ _Hey_ -O!” Jack Frost called heartily, sweeping an arm out to the side in a wide greeting, eyes darting left and right. (On the rug by the hearth and roaring fire. Toward the nook by the northern window, the one that faced the mountains. By the banister over the bookshelves, ridiculously, just in case.)

It was late afternoon, during Anna's daily nap. Elsa should have been in the library.

But Elsa wasn't there.

Slowly, Jack's arms came to rest at his sides. “Weird,” he muttered, then picked up his feet and soared through the halls, sending a rush of chilly air over the fire as he flew past, which hissed at him in outrage. He smirked, then—and again when he came upon her bedroom, two stories above, past the stairs and servants, and all the warmth of _home_. (This one had always held a lot of that— _warmth_ , despite perhaps, the circumstances—even for a big, old castle, though today seemed rather quiet. Still. Jack had nothing against slow and lazy days. Nothing at all.)

But she wasn't in her room, either.

He knew this because the door had been left slightly ajar; a seemingly insignificant mistake, perhaps for anywhere but here in the dead of winter— _perhaps for any little girl not secretly blessed with ice powers_ —and when he peered around the edge, it had been empty.

Too empty.

Instead of two beds, there was only one. Books were missing, as well as the shelves that housed them. The flames were burning furiously in the hearth, filling the room with a deep, wholesome warmth, safe from any chill. The room glowed with light, but the curtains were drawn. They were rarely ever drawn. And there was _space_. So much empty space...

Mouth thinning into a firm line, Jack slowly eased back away from the door, carefully shifting it into place inside the frame. The click echoed throughout the halls and Jack realized, truly, just how empty they really were.

(Where were all the servants? Where was the winter sunshine, shining through the windows? Why was it blocked by walls of fabric, by thick, heavy drapes over every pane?

Where was she?)

“Elsa?” came a tiny voice from farther down the hall. Jack turned before the name had even finished. He was there by the second knock.

 _Anna_ , his mind whispered, as a deep line creased his brow. He watched, not yet understanding, as Anna knocked her little fist into the wood of a door he didn't recognize; pale green, pierced with shades of blue, of painted snowflakes that could never hope to compare, no matter how beautiful they were.

“Elsa?” she repeated, a fraction louder, as the pieces began to fuse themselves together in Jack Frost's clouded mind.

A chill swept through him, unlike anything he had ever known.

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Anna's little hand did not knock again, but it did not leave the door.

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

**. * * * .**

And Jack thought her voice was very small, indeed,

when she stared up at the wall of pale blue and white,

and asked her sister if she wanted to build a snowman.

**. * * * .**

**.  
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**.  
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**.  
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	10. - your enemy -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/31/14_. I still can't believe I'm actually writing Jelsa, by the way. I have so many unfinished fics I need to work on, but these two just won't get out of my head. (Dammit, Rina.) Though seriously, I am so enjoying this. Thanks again to all of the commenters and kudos-givers! :)

 

. * * * . _  
_

 _\- your enemy -_  
  
. * * * .

 

“ _Elsa,_ ” he choked.  
  
Her name, cracking on his lips, and the way she wouldn't look up at him  
when he crouched beside her, huddled against the pale white door;  
her little shoulders shivering, but not from the cold.

Fear, curling in his heart.

 

This was what he would remember.

 

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“ _Elsa,”_ he whispered brokenly,  
staring down at the gloves on her hands.

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“ _What happened?”_

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. * * * .

 

It was a full day before he got the story, and even then, it was only in bits and pieces. In sentences that trailed into nothing, in silence, in words that ripped themselves from her throat. (In bouts of, “ _Please, I don't want to talk about it,”_ and “ _Are you really here? When are you going to leave again?”_

“ _Jack... where were you?_ ”)

“You know what he said to me?” Elsa whispered the following evening, after she was sure that he was actually there, that he wasn't really away in the south or the west or wherever it was that he went when he wasn't with her. That she hadn't just imagined him up, because she needed him.

(The snowstorm in Ushuaia could wait. Antarctica wouldn't miss him all that much, not for a while.

He wasn't going anywhere.)

“Who?” Jack had asked, just as quiet. He was staring out at the sea, because that was what she was doing. There, on the sill, was still a fresh layer of ice. From what he could glean of her story, it was three-days-old; the last show of magic before the gloves locked it all away. ( _“The snow was falling... and I—I wanted to see—”_ )

“The clan leader of the trolls,” Elsa whispered. “What he said, after he took away Anna's memories... or maybe it was right before. I can't remember.”

 _Memories_.

Jack straightened, shifting subtly in his seat against the glass. _Of course_. Memories.

He needed to speak with Tooth.

“ _...but also great danger_ ,” Elsa whispered, and Jack turned toward her with a start. “It's only going to get worse,” she breathed. “He said... ' _You must learn to control it'_.”She ducked her head down, laying them atop her knees. “As if I didn't already know.”

Jack already knew how the rest of the story went.

The ride back to the castle was a long, quiet journey and, though exhausted, sleep had not come to Elsa at all. She had slept in her parents room that night, on a warm cot by the hearth, but could barely move for fear of freezing the flames. ( _“I called for you... I said your name, but I—I was afraid to say it any louder. It was just a whisper, at the most, though I thought it, over and over. You mustn't have... You must not have... I knew you couldn't hear me._ )

Anna had slept for two days.

( _“And when she woke up...”_ ) The royal staff had been reduced by more than half, sent graciously away with heartfelt gratitude, a clever cover, and well-wishes accompanied by generous severance pays. While the rest of the kingdom began to open their doors to the fresh air of springtime, the castle barred its gates, shuttered its windows and closed its drapes, blocking out the light that once filtered through its halls. A new room was made for little Elsa, a fine room with fine furnishings and an even finer view of the bay, and a new door with painted snowflakes. One that was much closer to the stairwell leading to the library.

Jack hated it.

( _Though, it did make it easier_ , he admitted, but only to himself. _To visit her._ )

She'd lasted a little less than a week before her unpredictable bursts of magic began to spiral her further into even greater danger of being caught; whereas it had once taken a great wave of emotion to spin her powers out of her control, now it took only the slightest shift in mood—the smallest slip, the tiniest unexpected change. (A smile. A drop of fear. A laugh.)

Ten steps forward. Twenty steps back.

( _“He couldn't even touch my skin—my father. When he helped me put the gloves on.”_ )

“ _Jack_ ,” Elsa whispered, breaking through the quiet. She was usually the one now, to speak first; as much as Jack loathed the quiet, there was little Jack loathed more than the thought of interrupting her silence. Elsa had always been quiet, thoughtful, and now there was much to consider.

“ _Yeah?_ ” he cleared his throat, voice raspy and tired, even though he wasn't. (His mind was spinning. He'd never had such a never-ending list of things he needed to do, of Guardians he needed to speak with as soon as he left Elsa's side—which wouldn't be for a while. He would make sure of that.

This wasn't going to happen again.)

“That wasn't the only thing that the troll elder said to me,” she revealed, and Jack looked at her with wide eyes, for this part of the story was new. “There was more.”

Jack's brows slanted downward, and his eyes tightened the corners. She'd spoken more in the last few minutes alone than she had in the whole of the last two days.

_._

_._

_._

_.  
_

_.  
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_.  
_

“ _What did he say?”_

  _._

_._

_._

She took a deep breath.

“ _Fear will be your enemy.”_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

 

“ _What?”_

“ _He_ said _—'Fear will be your enemy'.”_  


_._

_._

_._

The cold air stilled in Jack's lungs.

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“ _Jack. What could he mean? Is it the fear in the hearts of others?_

 

_Or in mine...?”_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

 

“ _Jack?”_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

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_._

_._

_._

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_._

 

. * * * .

It was five days before Jack left Elsa's side,  
with a promise on his frosted lips and a Northern wind pulling at his clothes.  
  
It was six days before Jack realized.  
  
Elsa had not cried.  
  
. * * * .

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	11. - the best -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/2/14_.

. * * * .  
  
\- _the best_ -  
  
. * * * .

 

“It is too soon to know for sure,” North answered finally. His deep voice echoed off the walls of his grand fortress, reverberating inside Jack's chest, though he was sure that North thought he was being quiet. “It is, also,” North added gravely, “Never too soon to be careful.”

“So what, then?” Bunnymund stepped forward, twitchy and tense. Jack was already on edge, frazzled and frayed beneath the surface, and Bunny's restlessness wasn't helping. “We start lookin' for sinkholes under beds?”

A frantic cloud of erratic shapes began blinking and shifting above Sandy's head, so fast and so urgently that Jack's head spun; it'd been spinning pretty severely to begin with, but now Jack Frost felt faintly ill.

“No,” North declared in his thick accent, dragging the fists on his hips to lay flat over the mound of his infamous belly. “There is too much else we worry about now. We have no time for Fear.”

“Yeah, then what do you suggest we do?” Bunny scoffed, crossing his arms over his front, boomerang still in hand and _man_ , Jack hoped to the Antarctic and back that he'd never sounded as impatient and bratty as the Hope-meister.

He knew for a fact that he had, of course, but it still helped to be able to frown upon Bunny's snappishness anyway.

It helped that Jack could trust Bunny to play the rude, disgruntled role, because Jack's patience was perilously close to slipping.

North slowly stroked his beard. “It took Pitch many years to dig himself out of the Earth. I do not think he will be so quick to return... but when he does, as this hinting prophecy foretells, I imagine he will be stronger, and more dangerous. We need new plan, new ways to combat Fear.”

“You mean,” Toothiana's light voice chimed in, thoughtful and calculating. Jack's fingers clenched in the pocket of his hoodie as she floated past him. “New believers?”

“Always,” North answered gravely, then paused, heavy and deep. “But I think... we may need _more._ ”

“More... Guardians?” Bunnymund side-eyed Jack, who side-eyed him in return. “What has Manny said?” he demanded shortly.

“Manny has said nothing,” North replied, voice growing boisterous. “Which is why—we must wait! And be on our guard.” His eyes widened, almost unnaturally. “HA! Did you hear that? We must be on our guard—Ha! Ha! Do you see?”

“Oh, dear,” Tooth murmured, and placed a finger at her feathered brow. Sandy shook his head, both fondly and a little exasperated.

Bunny abruptly turned on his heel.

“It is because we are _Guard_ ians! Yes?”

Bunny's scoff could be heard even through North's raucous laughter. “ _Oh, for the love of—_ ”

“ _Aha, ha ha_! It is clever, no?”

“Why do these things always happen around Easter?” Bunny rounded on them, looking a little deranged, then gave a forceful _thump-thump_ of his foot. A portal opened wide and deep before him, and Jack knew Bunny was only half-joking when he demanded, “Why can't we have a Christmas catastrophe for once?”

“Oh, Bunny—” Toothiana tried, but had to place a small hand over her mouth to hide her laugh. Bunnymund sent her a knowing look, but that did little to dispel her smile.

North only laughed harder, and even Sandy's shoulders shook with silent laughter. Bunny gave his head a short, disbelieving shake, then leaned forward to disappear into his rabbit hole—but caught sight of Jack just before he plunged.

The others' laughter was growing louder in his ears, but Jack couldn't join; he had a weird sensation in his gut, something uneasy, gnawing on his insides. Bunny seemed to see it, and looked as if he was considering leaving straight away, but at the last moment gave Jack a curt nod, a “She'll be fine, kid,” and disappeared.

Jack blinked, taken aback.

 _Dammit_. He hated that nickname. It didn't help that Bunny had obviously intended it to be just as reassuring as it was irritating, or that it seemed to have actually helped.

Stupid Hope Guardian.

“Jack! Jack Frost!” North boomed. “Stop glaring at Easter Bunny and come! Tell us more about your special assignment. What news from Arendelle? Maybe we will discover clues.”

With a sigh, Jack faced back toward the others, and tried to think.

But he could only hear the same thing, over and over again.

_Fear will be your enemy._

“Is Anna all right?” Tooth asked worriedly, fluttering closer. Jack's head snapped up. In his haste to alert the others of Pitch, he hadn't mentioned Anna at all.

“ _What_?”

“Anna,” Tooth repeated, wringing her hands, oblivious to the swirling storm building in his mind. “How is she doing?”

Jack's mouth opened and moved, but nothing came out. ( _Where to begin?_ )

“Ah, yes,” North's rueful sigh cut over him, and when Jack looked to him, North was nodding again, contemplating. “Such unfortunate loss. Tell us, Toothiana, have we reason for concern with these trolls?”

_What? Wait a minute—_

“ _Wait a_ —”

But the words died in Jack's throat.

He stared at the three of them—North, Sandy, Tooth—as they stood around the platform that housed and hid a giant moonstone, talking easily with one another about the fate of childhood—probably as they'd been doing for centuries. It was as if they'd forgotten just who this case belonged to. It was as if he weren't even there.

Jack felt something harden in his chest.

_You all... you already knew about this?_

“To be honest, the troll clans in these parts are known for meddling in memories,” Toothiana sighed, gently rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Although their attempts have lessened over recent years out of respect for the King, a little boy in the same kingdom was just recently adopted into their clan, not long after Elsa's accident, and I'm still trying to determine whether any memory alteration was involved,” Tooth bit her lip in consideration, but Jack's mind was still caught on _accident,_ replaying it over and over. “From what I can see, the little boy was, indeed, an orphan,” she sighed. “But trolls are notorious for kidnapping children by planting false memories in their mind, and Kristoff's only lost two teeth...”

 _Is he happy there?_ asked Sandy through a motley of of sand shapes. _Is he safe?_

A large crash, fierce and sudden, alarmed them all—splintering wood, cracking stone, shattering glass and—

“ _How_ many times I tell you—” North roared, pointing an accusing finger at two very guilty-looking yetis. “If you are going to test-drive the go-carts—”

Sandy, Toothiana, and Jack looked at one another as North stormed off to the spiral staircase to prevent a ceiling-high display of toy trucks from collapsing, as well as scold a few dozen angrily-mumbling yetis. The North Pole headquarters continued to fall apart around them—a batch of cookies began burning in the ovens due to the commotion, elves crashed into each other carelessly in their haste, yetis shook furry fists at one another in outrage—and really, a domino effect of chaos was usually something Jack Frost enjoyed.

But he was hardly in the mood.

 _Keep us informed_ , Sandy requested, once Tooth had replied that, “Yes, for now—I believe he is safe.”

And with that the Sandman gave Jack Frost a hearty salute, conjured a plane out golden dust, and offered an earnest look that clearly read, _I'll do what I can._ And then he was gone.

Jack Frost turned to Tooth slowly. She was still watching the mess unfold upstairs, as North battled his own fortress. Tooth was laughing when she turned towards him, eyes bright, and the smile disappeared almost instantly when her gaze met his.

 There was a snarl on Jack Frost's lips.

 It took a lot to keep it in.

 “You... you _knew_?”

. * * * .

  
The door clicked shut, echoing loudly against thick, wooden walls.  
  
“ _Of course we knew,_ ” Tooth whispered back, urging him to be quiet. Her wings were fluttering madly behind her as she peered through the drapes of the window to the entrance hall, checking that her little faeries weren't worrying; she'd taken him to a private room in the North Poles upper tier, safe from the chaos below. He knew she was trying not to alarm her little ones, but Jack was sure his voice had already carried far. “I was alerted as soon as Anna's memories were altered!” she whispered.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he demanded harshly, his staff swinging through the air in a wide sweep below her feet, eyes narrowed with disbelief. With anger. Frustration.

Fear.

(He should have been there.

He should have been there for her, when it happened.)

“Jack, I _tried_ —you didn't answer!” she snapped, patience wearing thin. She was frantic and frazzled, and kept sending urgent, longing glances toward the door, where her small faeries were scurrying desperately about the loud chaos of the North Pole. Jack didn't care. “I tried to contact you, but you'd already been out on patrol, then traveled over—it was too late by the time you arrived! And you've ignored every summons since! We didn't even know you were coming today—just showing up out of the blue with an urgent announcement—”  
  
“Are you trying to say that it wasn't?”

“What? Of course not—any news regarding Pitch is of the utmost importance—”  
  
“Just not important enough to actually do something about it, you mean.”  
  
“Jack, if you had _come_ when North called you—”

“Can you blame me?” he snarled. “You thought I'd leave just so we could come back here and stand around a big, stupid moonstone and wait for some jerk in the sky to tell us what to do instead of solving anything ourselves?”  
  
Tooth frowned down at him, as if he were a stranger to her— _an unwelcome guest_ —and the first realizations of his behavior came creeping up toward the surface of his awareness. He saw himself suddenly, through a list of unconnected, unrelated discomforts: short, shallow breaths; heavy, heaving chest; a dry, sandpaper mouth.

An icy, frozen heart.  
  
 _What are you doing?_ his mind whispered, suddenly.

“I'm sorry,” he managed, feeling dazed. Slowly, his legs grew weaker beneath him, folding under until he was seated on the floor. His staff laid in his lap, an anchor pinning him to the ground, and Toothiana flitted down to his side instantly, hovering a small hand at his shoulder. “I don't know... what...”

“What to do?” she whispered, so softly. So very, very softly. Like the fluttering of her wings.

Jack's mouth ran dry. That wasn't what he was going to say.

_I don't know what came over me._

“I'm sorry,” he said again, a little more loudly, and looked her in the eye, so she would know that he meant it. “I'm sorry.”

He felt her eyes trace the lines of his face, curving over his jaw and nose and cheeks, settling over his eyes. Hers were always calming; a soft shade of amethyst, like the kind he sometimes saw amongst the Northern Lights.

“I can't bring Anna's memories back,” Toothiana said quietly, very gently, like he might break at any moment. He actually felt like he might. “They're still there, but they are buried beneath new ones. Trolls are simple creatures, but their magic is very powerful, and very complex. The new ones that have been overlaid will not allow Anna's old memories to seep through unless she is able to pull them out herself.” Toothiana swallowed, and the sound of it shuddered through Jack's ear, fusing with the beat of his heavy, heavy heart. “Anna will not remember Elsa's gifts unless she can do it on her own... or Elsa tells her.”

Neither of which were likely to happen.

"We know you're worried about her. And we know that there's not much that we can say to make you believe us, but I promise you... We are doing everything we can to help Elsa and her sister, and her kingdom, and I know it feels like we may not be doing enough, but... we've been doing this for centuries, Jack. We're not perfect, and we don't have all the answers, but we know that—sometimes—the only thing to do is wait." Tooth smiled sadly. "Though... we know how you feel about that, too."

Jack wanted to say something. Cheeky or snarky, something to let her know that he was sorry, and that he understood, even if he didn't like it. That he did believe her.

"You can trust us, you know." Tooth swallowed and whispered, “And maybe... maybe it's...”

Toothiana did not finish her thought, but she did not need to; Jack appreciated that she did not say it, more than anything else.

 _Maybe it's for the best_.

“She's her sister,” Jack whispered, after a long moment. Toothiana's hand closed over his shoulder.

There was a lot more that needed to be said, but this was all Jack could handle, right now.

  
. * * * .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is slowly taking over my life.
> 
> Also, here's my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)!


	12. - climate change -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/3/14_. Can I just say how nice it is to be able to work on a fic that allows me to post short, quick chapters almost every single day? :) Such a nice break! 
> 
> Even if it is starting to slowly consume my every waking moment, but ANYWAY.

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _climate change_ -  
  
. * * * .

 

Jack didn't know about _better_ ,  
but things definitely changed.

 

. * * * .

He returned to Arendelle as soon as he could, as fast as the wind would carry him.

But time was a funny thing.

Whipping through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour, passing through portals, and breathing in spikes of cold, thin air—it gave a Guardian plenty of chances to think.

He couldn't fall apart again.

 _Elsa needs you_. His _team_ needed him. He hadn't signed up for this afterlife, but he'd signed up for this _life—_ and all the rules and responsibilities that came with it. (Even if he didn't always think the other Guardians knew best, he trusted them. He had to.) Gone was the naïve little winter spirit, fresh outta the lake; he couldn't pretend like he used to, that he was happy to be on his own in his own little world of invisibility, without anyone breathing down his neck about what was right or what was wrong.

It'd taken him centuries to realize it.

That _alone_ didn't always equal _free_.

. * * * .

Elsa was sound asleep when he returned.

A lump gathered in his throat as he sat at her window, caught between the soothing caress of the ocean breeze and the soft, reassuring sounds of her quiet, steady breathing. The waves were especially restless this evening, and his crazy descent from the sky probably hadn't helped.

It was a little past midnight when a soft cloud of golden stardust gathered above her head, and Jack watched as dreams of sparkling snowflakes danced through the room. In spite of himself, Jack grinned... There was a figure taking shape in her cloud of dream dust— _a tall, lanky sort of guy with a Shepherd's staff and a strange, hooded cloak, a foreign garment that never ceased to fascinate her_ —and Jack settled deeper into the uncomfortable ledge of the window. The position was awkward, and the wooden edge dug into his hip, but he didn't mind. Jack watched for but a moment, silently admiring the Sandman's handiwork and Elsa's personal touches, then turned to look at the ocean instead. He hadn't forgotten what Toothiana had told him about the private sanctuary of a child's dreams; two hundred years ago—two _days_ ago—he might not have been able to resist, but tonight there was a different kind of weight buried inside his chest, one that wasn't there a week ago. Jack wouldn't say that he was any wiser, and it was impossible to say if he felt any older, but his eyes were a bit more narrowed and his jaw was set a little tighter and the heaviness in his chest was lodged just a little bit deeper, just a little.

Elsa was smiling in her sleep, but hers was not the only smile he saw.

It was Jamie's. It was Sophie's and Anna's. He saw the smiles of a million other children, in this world and the next. It was Caleb's, and Monty's, and Claude's. It was Pippa's and Cupcake's.

It was his little sister's.

When the dawn came, it felt almost impossible to leave again, now that the urgency of consulting the others was no longer a clamp around his lungs. But he was a Guardian, responsible for many. He had a job to do.

In life, Jack had been a master of cutting corners, but he would never _dare_ consider such a thing with such significant responsibility on his shoulders now; Elsa was his special assignment, but it was springtime in Arendelle, and there were many other places in need of a snowflake or two—and even more in need of _fun_.

Jack Frost couldn't linger in Arendelle forever.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

And—true to his Guardianship—he didn't.

.

.

.

.

.

 

But if it just so happened that, by pure coincidence, a few regions experienced a lighter, tamer winter that year—who could say?  
  
(Global warming, maybe?)

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Naturally, when asked,  
  
Jack Frost chalked it up to climate change.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

 

. * * * .


	13. - in summer -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/4/14_.

. * * * .  


Summers were always the hardest.

And the first was the hardest of all. 

  
. * * * .  
.

.

.

.

.  
.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- in summer -_  
  
. * * * .

  
The celebrations for the first sun of spring were long since past. Children had set down their flower crowns and ribbon streamers and taken up their heavy flasks of water, warding off the record balmy heat. No longer did the townspeople meander about the cobblestone streets, basking in the warmth of sunlight on their cheeks; instead, the people of Arendelle took refuge from the unforgiving sun under the shade of storefronts of lenient shopkeepers, and little houses with roofs that extended past the walls. They hid under the dry pine of the forest during frequent breaks, or inside the sanctuary of taverns with cool, stone floors.

Even while inside the castle, within the walls of a veritable fortress against the outside world, there was little that could be done. Anna had been rolling about the castle all morning, stretching and curling her little body against the floors like a cat with an aversion to sunshine, migrating to a cooler, shadier spots whenever the sunlight began to shift between the folds of the drapes, or when her body had given the space too much of its warmth. The King declared a day of rest and refuge, and urged his people to heed this wave of unusual heat with caution; the servants were given frequent encouragement to drink water and take rest, but _there is still work to be done_ , they said, and the loyalty of Arendelle's royal staff to their duties was no match for a hot day, they assured him, even as they fanned themselves with thin, paper fans.

The very air itself was filled with laziness, sluggish and slow-moving. It made Jack feel tired. It made his skin itch and his body slow and his mind foggy. His lips cracked with dry heat and his skin flaked beneath his clothes. It made Jack want to sleep, and it was so hard to _breathe_ that oftentimes he found himself simply going without it. It was a lot easier that way. It was torture.

But he was here.  
  
Because here was Elsa, sitting prim and proper at the window of her bedroom, in her little blue summer dress and her little blue cardigan.

Being fitted for her new little gloves.

She sat atop the cushions at the window near the bay with with her legs tucked carefully under her, patient and silent as her mother stood behind and inspected the final stitches of blue thread along the trim of white cotton. Outside, beyond the glass, the ocean's reckless spray offered no relief; Jack watched as Elsa watched the mist shimmer into the sky, curling upwards with each crashing wave, sparkling with sunshine and foam. The Queen was speaking to someone in hushed, gentle tones, but Jack was hardly listening. Elsa knew he was there, of course, but could do little whilst her mother was so near; face impassive, chin high, eyes staring down at the bay, giving nothing away. She watched it all from afar, silently.

( _"Do you know what the clan leader asked my father when we arrived? The very first thing he asked—_ _born with the powers, or cursed? Not gifted. Not blessed. Cursed."_ )

Jack had never allowed himself to believe that Elsa's magic was a _curse—_ nor a _condition_ , nor any of the other ridiculous words her parents threw around in the dark—but at _this_ , on this day, Jack honestly had to wonder.

This had to be some sort of punishment, unusual and cruel.

And wholly undeserved.

The Queen offered a word of sincere thanks to the royal seamstress, then insisted that she allow herself to enjoy the refreshments in the lower parlor before taking her leave, where the palace servants would be happy to assist her while she awaited the King's payment for her gracious services.

If the seamstress thought it strange that the Queen did not wait to ensure a proper fit before sending her away, she was professional enough not to say; Jack knew he would follow her later, of course, to be sure that it stayed that way.

Once the door had been closed shut, Elsa released a tiny sigh. Immediately, her head drifted forward, heavy. Without waiting to be asked, Elsa slowly, carefully, slipped her fingers from her winter gloves.

Exposed to the open air—finally free of thick, stifling silk, finally able to _breathe—_ Elsa's fingers twitched and curled in surprise, and tiny sparks of snowflakes emitted from her hands. A sharp gasp cut through the air hanging about the window, and Jack flitted forward just as ice began to curl around the wooden sill... just as the Queen slipped a soft, cotton glove over her daughter's fingers, trapping the magic inside.

“There, my dear,” said the Queen, soft and reassuring. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes had pinched. “That should help.”

Jack couldn't help the look he gave her, Elsa's mother; he wasn't sure what reflected in his expression, but it could have been any number of things. Disbelief, probably, or doubt. And maybe, from the darker parts of his past— _the parts that he didn't like to admit to himself that he still had, the parts he liked to pretend didn't exist_ —

Jack thought there might be the tiniest bit of resentment, too.

“I'm sorry, momma,” Elsa whispered, though Jack realized with a start that she was no longer staring at her gloves, or what lay hidden, sleeping, inside them.

She was looking at him.

Quickly, Jack Frost schooled his features into something more appropriate, into something gentler and more reassuring. Elsa's expression did not change, and Jack felt his facade begin to crumble.

“Hush, now,” soothed the Queen, and stroked Elsa's soft, blonde hair, placing a kiss to her daughter's temple. Elsa's eyes closed, her little body stilling beneath the touch, and Jack quietly curled himself beside her on the cushioned bench, folding his legs in front of him. His staff was off to the side, useless.

“It will be all right,” said the Queen, with a brave show of a smile. “These will be...”

 _What?_ Jack withheld a scoff, though it wasn't easy. _More comfortable?_

Her Highness seemed to be sharing a similar line of thought.

“You are so brave, little one,” she said instead, and let all her love and affection pour into the words. “I know this can't be easy, and... you are incredible, my little Elsa. Please remember that.”

It took the young Princess a moment to speak. “Thank you, Momma,” Elsa whispered, quiet and weak. Jack gently nudged his knee into hers, quickly, as if to remind her that he was there. She took a deep breath and swallowed, then held her head high.

“Elsa,” said the Queen, and her voice was so unlike the way it'd sounded before. Gone was the regal ruler, the face of strength in a time of need; she was a mother, lost and confused, breaking for her child; Jack had been around long enough to note the subtle nuances of pain laced through her tone. He hoped with everything he had that Elsa was not yet wise enough to recognize them. “Elsa, I promise, we'll—”

“Your Majesty?” came a knock from the door. A servant offered some sort of explanation, but once again, that was hardly the focus of Jack's attention.

Jack watched as Elsa examined her new gloves, curious and appraising, while her mother's voice drifted indistinctly through the air. His forearms rested atop his knees, and his throat felt dry. Itchy.

“Excuse me, my love,” apologized the Queen, then took her leave with another careful kiss pressed gently into her daughter's hair. Elsa whispered a goodbye, but Jack wasn't sure the Queen heard it.

It was a long time before either of them spoke.

“These are a lot more flexible than the other ones,” Elsa observed quietly, twisting her hands this way and that. “And my skin isn't nearly as unbearably warm. I've been thinking about that a lot, you know.”

“Elsa,” he said, gently. They needed to talk about this.

“I've been thinking a lot about how my skin seems to react to the open air no matter what,” she went on, ignoring him. “But how it's _especially_ fierce when it hasn't been exposed for a long period of time. I think my body seems to know, almost, that my powers are being woken up, and then it wants to come shooting out of my fingertips—like the force of bubbles exploding from a bottle of champagne when the cork is removed.”

Jack Frost knew that she was deflecting him, but he couldn't resist a grin. “Been drinking a lot of champagne, have you?”

Elsa sent him a frosty look, but his smirk only spread further across his face. He didn't miss the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. (Annoyance, said she; _humor_ , said Jack.) It was a welcome sight.

“You'd be surprised at how seriously my grandfather took his champagne,” Elsa quipped, as her fingers still played with the edges of her gloves. “We still have quite the extensive collection of tomes in our library.”

“Of champagne?”

“Of _books_ , Jack,” she sighed, exasperated, though her eyes were soft with what he officially, privately deemed as amusement. “'Tomes' is another word for books. Especially old, scholarly ones.”

“Ah,” Jack smirked, and pushed down the tiny bubble of embarrassment that was trying to spring forth. With laughing eyes, he leaned closer and half-joked, “Well, that certainly explains why I've never heard of them.”

This was where he usually toed the line of dangerous.

Snippets of who he was and who he thought he was, revealing glimpses of a past he only barely remembered. ( _A poor Shepherd's boy in the colonies, with two mouths to feed beside his own, and so very little time before he was forced to become a man. A brother and a son. Educated at home by his mother's diligent, hopeful hand. He hadn't had the heart to tell her that he'd never consider studying at University abroad, no matter how hard she hoped or pushed; that he would never leave her, nor his sister, not for anything. A trickster, that's what he was, a lazy student and a hard-working laborer—when he wasn't busy skiving off chores to pull pranks._ ) His story wasn't any more extraordinary than any of the others he'd shared it with; he mattered, of course, to many different people in many different ways, but— _when it came right down to it, in the grand scheme of things—_ his life hadn't held much value, until it was gone.

For so long, he'd thought the trick to being Jack Frost— _Jack Frost the Trickster, Jack Frost the Maker of Messes, Wherever He Went_ —was to laugh at what he could. To laugh at the pain so it could not longer bite. To laugh at the world, whose people never seemed to learn. To laugh at his invisibility, because no one else could.

To laugh at himself, because he couldn't imagine the alternatives.

Jack scoffed. _Old habits die hard, it seems._ And he had centuries to prove it.

And Elsa, of course, was staring at him.

He stiffened. Straightening, Jack swallowed and tried to look casual.

“You're doing it again,” she pointed out, with a soft smile on her lips and concern in her eyes. He absently hoped she hadn't learned that from him, then remembered her mother, who, just a few moments ago— “Did I say something?” she asked worriedly. “I'm sorry if I did. Are you all right? Where do you go when you do that?” she asked, a testament to how poorly he influenced her and her determination not to pry. They were well beyond that point of politeness, anyway. “What were you thinking about?”

Jack let out a smirk. “I'm thinking about how much better a library would be if it were filled with endless bottles of champagne instead of dusty old books.”

Elsa sent him a dry look; he hadn't pulled any wool over her eyes on that one, he was sure, but growing rapport or no, Elsa was still the considerate Princess she always strived to be, and she played along with his game.

“You know,” she warned, as a slow smile overtook her stern demeanor. “Sometimes I cannot tell whether you are joking when you say things like that.”

“Probably for the best,” Jack winked. “Chances are most things I say are meant to be taken lightly anyway, so it's best that you usually assume the worst.”

“Jack.”

“The best?”

“ _Jack_ ,” she laughed—and _this_ , this was the best part of his day.

  
. * * * .

 

It was five weeks later. In some ways, summer had since been kinder.

In many ways, it had not.

They were by the window again, and Jack was atop his favorite perch—balanced on the balls of his feet at the curve of his staff, his toes curling over the tip. She was leaning against the wall and looking out the window, a book laying forgotten in her lap.

“I've been thinking about the champagne again,” she said suddenly. Jack's eyes widened.

“Goodness, Elsa,” he teased. “I'm beginning to think you have a problem.”

She was feeling especially bright today, and he was nearly giddy because of it. It was taking a lot to restrain himself. (A blizzard in the dead of a beautiful Arendelle summer was _not_ something Mother Nature would be so willing to let slide, and he was already pushing his luck as it was; he'd been lacking in his snow days in the other realm lately, and he was going to have to make up for it. Soon.) He couldn't begin to imagine how Elsa managed to do it every day, to keep it all inside; he could only contain himself for so long before he felt like he would burst, and by then it was usually time to head back, anyway. Jack Frost always had the promise—the _obligation_ —of returning to winter, whether it was days or hours. Elsa would have to wait months, seasons. Half a year.

So he did his best to wait. With her.

“ _Honestly_ , Jack,” she scolded, though it was all in good fun. “What are you going to do when I've actually been allowed a sip? Or even more terrifying—when I'm of age to drink it?”

Jack's smiled faltered.

(He hadn't really gotten around to that part yet... explaining that, one day, she would no longer see him. She would outgrow him.

That she would stop believing in him.)

“Anyway, I've been thinking about the force behind it—or rather, the pressure, and how it builds up. I don't think that's actually the best metaphor, to be honest,” she explained. He could see her eyebrows scrunching in the window's reflection. “It's not that my powers feel like they're about to burst forth from my body at any moment—well, actually, _sometimes_ they do, but only when I'm really, really excited, or scared, or feeling something else just as intensely—but rather, most of the time it feels as if my magic is just simmering. Not quite asleep, not quite awake, just... waiting.”

Jack frowned, but stayed where he was. “You're talking like your powers are alive.”

“I think,” Elsa said slowly, choosing her words carefully. Even more carefully than usual. “In a way... they are. I feel like there is _life_ in them. I feel like... like I could _create_ life. Do you know what I mean?”

Elsa turned to him with intense, hungry, curious eyes, but all Jack saw was a bright flash of panic and birds and bees and babies and _ohgod,_ he thought her parents had already talked to her about all this.

“Jack?”

“Ah,” Jack said, as casually as possible, swallowing his unease with a hearty— _not-as-subtle-as-he'd-hoped—_ gulp. “Sort of. You should probably keep talking about the metaphor stuff though, so I can get a better feel for it.”

“Okay. So I think my skin gets really excited by the open air—and my hands, especially. So I _think_ what I can do is start practicing—keeping my hands covered at all times when I'm outside of my room at night, then taking them off for periods of time when I'm alone here, to start working up a bit of tolerance—or something. I read the word in a book, but I'm not quite sure what it means. Anyway, I'll keep trying until I can last for much longer bits of time, so that when I'm _forced_ to go out in public—whenever that may be—that if my gloves happen to slip off, I won't be so alarmingly terrified of losing control, which is how I normally feel when I'm out in the halls. And I'll just keep strengthening that—my ability to keep my powers inside—just like I do with the rest of my magic when it's out. I mean, my magic might start to get confused—you know, _am I coming out to play or am I coming out to stay hidden?_ But I think it will work, if I really try at it, which I will. Also, even though I think my hands are especially sensitive, I think I should try to keep the rest of me as covered up as possible, even during the summertime, just to be safe.”

_I'm sure your father will be very pleased to hear that._

“What?” she asked, head turning towards him.

“Um,” Jack started, and realized with a jolt that he'd accidentally spoken out loud. “Nothing. Just—nothing.” He cleared his throat. _Shit_. “So. When do you wanna start?”

Elsa considered this very seriously.

“Tomorrow?” she suggested, biting her lower lip. The look she gave him was a little sheepish. “I sort of... want to keep practicing the rest of my magic today. You know—just little things.”

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“Yeah,” he said, grinning at her grin. “I'm okay with that.”

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. * * * .  
  
( _Ten steps forward, twenty steps back._ )  
Their training wasn't anything like it was before.

But a little, Jack Frost had learned, was a whole lot better than nothing.  
  
Especially if it was only the beginning.  
  
. * * * .


	14. - open windows -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/5/14_.

. * * * .

  
\- _open windows_ -

  
. * * * .

 

“I'm worried about Anna.” 

Jack Frost blinked up at her from his seat on the floor, surprised.

“Oh?” he said, while he tried to pull the rest of his words together.

It was nearing the end of summer, and a chilly, welcome breeze floated in through the library windows. (The glass doors were open, _but just a crack_ —at Elsa's insistence.) Elsa had curled up in an armchair closest to the seaside, taking up as little space as possible. She was frowning at the night's dark horizon.

She only ever came out at night, anymore. It wasn't exactly encouraged that a girl so young should stay up so late... but then again, it wasn't like anybody actually knew what she was up to at this time of night, anyway.

(How many months had it been? Jack was starting to lose track. He wondered if Elsa had even bothered to count. She already seemed a lot more used to this new situation than he was.)

“She tried knocking again today,” Elsa said quietly, gazing out at the inky sky. “I thought it would be easier, now that more time has passed, but it hurt just as much before. I told her to go away.” She was silent for a long moment, and Jack frowned as he let that sink in, slowly, picturing it in his mind. “Actually,” she added, all the more quietly. “I snapped at her... I never used to do that.”

Elsa was staring out at the blackness again, and a great, heavy sigh sank from her little frame. She was swathed in fabric from head to toe—a long, thin nightgown with a long-sleeved cardigan over her tiny shoulders. A blanket that had fallen from her lap now laid swaddled against the old, scratchy fabric of the parlor chair, covering her feet. It certainly wasn't because the air was cold—not that it would have bothered her, anyway. True to her word, Elsa was doing everything in her power to keep her magic in check. Her gloves were folded neatly on the floor beside him, and her hands rested primly over the hem of her cardigan. It was one of those nights, when Elsa came out to control, rather than to train. Although she often tried to argue that they were one in the same.

(Jack did not agree, but this line of thinking let her practice her magic with him at least _sometimes_ , so, eventually, Jack gave up trying to persuade her otherwise.

In time, he figured, she would change her mind. He just needed to be... patient.)

Jack gently cleared his throat, then conjured up a miniature flurry in his palm. Just because _she_ wasn't going to practice her magic didn't mean that he couldn't make something for her, especially like he used to.

“Siblings are allowed to snap at each other sometimes,” he said quietly, as seriously and lightly as he could, then tried not to wince at his own poor show of consolation. “It's normal.”

Elsa's brows slanted downward. “I doubt we could be considered normal,” she whispered.

“Your _situation_ might not be,” Jack argued gently, twirling snowflakes over his fingertips. He hadn't ever really said so, but he'd been impressed by the way Toothiana could flip her coins down her fingers and had decided to perfect the craft himself. In his own style, of course. The snowflakes weren't as flashy as gold pieces and quarters, but they still looked pretty cool. “You guys, on the other hand,” Jack claimed. “Are still sisters.”

A small huff escaped her, surprising him. “Jack Frost,” she sighed, voice lilting with a challenging, questioning tone; it was still a little shocking to hear more of her natural playfulness come out. Elsa peered down at him, tucking her little chin into her covered shoulder, and asked, “Are you an expert on sisterhood?”

Jack tossed the single snowflake into the air and caught it with a swipe of his hand. Instead of melting, as it would have against normal, human flesh, it stayed perfect and pristine against his palm. He resisted the strange, sudden urge to crush it.

Jack Frost quickly cleared his throat. “No,” he quietly replied, stretching his smile wider, then let it soften. It felt too strained. “Just little sisters.”

Elsa blinked— _once, twice_ —then shifted ever so slightly in her chair. After a long, thoughtful moment, Elsa tilted her forward, watching as he continued to play with the snowflakes in his palm.

“Really?” she whispered.

He swallowed. Jack hesitated—stuck on the brink of indecision, for perhaps just a second too long—then swerved the snowflakes to the side, conjuring more of his own frozen wonderland with deep concentration.

“Maybe not an expert,” he replied distractedly, keeping his hands busy. “I only had one, after all.”

There was a long silence. Jack continued to work his fingers through the flurry, focusing on the tiny, delicate shapes. There were so many of them. And so _different,_ all of them...

“You didn't tell me you had a little sister,” she whispered, eyes just a little wider.

“There's a lot of things I haven't told you,” he pointed out lightly, grinning with a tell-tale smirk. He snapped his gaze to the haze of snow captured between his hands, ignoring the knotting in his gut.

Elsa stared at him intently, her expression oddly blank.

(Having been on the receiving end of such a look for as long as he had, Jack knew full well that this was Elsa's way of keeping her curiosity in check. If he knew Elsa—and he liked to think that he _did—_ then chances were that she was doing her very best to be polite—to be considerate, for _his_ sake—and just about ready to burst right out of her seat; Elsa liked unanswered questions about just as much as he did.)

A small, gentle swallow cleared her throat. “Do you... intend to tell me any of them?” Elsa asked quietly, very carefully. (Quiet and careful— _always._ Jack wondered what she would do if someone told her that she was allowed to scream and shout. To ask personal, invasive questions. To _pry._ Would she let herself do it? He wasn't so sure.

Jack wondered what she would do if someone told her that she was allowed to be human. To let it all out. To let it go.

He wondered if, one day, he would.

He wondered if she would believe him.)

“Jack?”

He blinked, clearing away his thoughts. ( _Baby steps, baby steps,_ he reminded himself. Elsa had already come a long way. No need to push.) And speaking of reminders, he seriously needed to be better about the whole spacing out thing. Staying 'present' and 'in the moment' and all, or whatever nonsense it was that Bunnymund talked about sometimes when he was up on his high rabbit-horse. (“ _That's the toughest part about this job, mate. You wouldn't think it, but sometimes, if you aren't careful—”)_

 _Yeah, right_. Like Bunny knew anything about being _present_. He was the Guardian of _hope_ , for crying out loud. That guy was all future, no question.

But then again.... maybe, _maybe_ —

That was why.

“Jack?”

“Uh,” he coughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I—what was your question?”

Elsa peered at him from her little armchair, but otherwise made no comment. She seemed to be getting used to his weird absentmindedness just as much as she was used to—well. Everything else.

“Is... How is Anna?”

Jack blinked. He certainly didn't remember that question. Had he spaced out for much longer than he'd thought? Or was Elsa still just trying to be polite?

Best to answer before he got lost in his own head again.

“Anna is Anna,” he reassured her, and couldn't help smiling in spite of himself. His voice was warm, his best attempt at soft, cheerful comfort, and he shrugged at Elsa's tiny, sad little smile. “Causing a ruckus in the kitchens, singing opera in the grand hall, dancing with her dolls...” _She misses you_ , but Jack bit his tongue.

“Is she reading now? What kinds of books does she like?”

Snow continued to swirl before him, hazy and glittering before his eyes, but Jack's mind was recalling the new shelves of books stacked along Anna's wall. Where Elsa's bed used to be.

“She's still practicing her letters,” Jack told her, then gave her a laughing, questioning look from beneath his brow. _Not everyone is like you_ , _reading chapter books at five_ , his eyes teased, and little seven-year-old Elsa flushed.

“I wish things could go back to the way they used to be,” she whispered, catching Jack off-guard. His magic stuttered between his fingers and he looked up in time to catch her eyes widening, and watch her little, gloveless hand cover her mouth, as if she could catch the words and slip them back inside. “I... Papa says I shouldn't think like that,” she admitted, eyes downcast on the floor. “That what happened, happened, and that there's no going back. Only forward.”

Jack's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and his grin tightened at the corners. “Wise words for a ruler,” Jack conceded, keeping his tone light. He swallowed and nudged closer to the feet of the armchair, and looked up at her directly. “What do _you_ think?”

Elsa blinked down at him, wide eyes filled with nervousness at the very notion.“I'm no ruler,” she reminded him, slightly awed.

 _You will be, one day,_ he thought. _You'll be a Queen, and a great one_.

“But you're a leader,” he said, and then plowed forward before she had a chance to deny it. “And you're a thinker, too, so I'm curious. Do you think it's okay to remember the past?”

“But... it's not just remembering,” Elsa quietly explained. “It's... _longing,_ I think. I... read a word in a book the other day, and I didn't understand it, so I looked it up in the library later that night. _Nostalgia_ ,” she declared, then took both of her hands and pressed them together, one palm flat against the other. Her hands had been so still, Jack had almost forgotten that she wasn't wearing her gloves. “It's more than just remembering the past. I miss it, too. _Nostalgia._ ” 

Jack Frost frowned, and Elsa noticed. “Am I using it right?” she asked, worried.

Well, that was the question, wasn't it?

Technically speaking, being an avid reader gave Elsa quite the impressive grasp on an ever-growing vocabulary. That was of no concern.

What concerned Jack was that seven seemed awfully young to be feeling bouts of heart-wrenching nostalgia.

“Yeah... Hey, Elsa,” he asked suddenly, twisting himself so he could rest a shoulder against one of the legs of the armchair, the one nearest toward her little feet. They were still tucked into the mound of an unnecessary blanket, but there was no doubt in Jack's mind that they were covered too, probably in little, matching blue slippers. “How many teeth have you lost?”

Elsa's lips parted slightly, and her head tilted sideways, one quizzical brow raising high. “Four, I think,” she answered. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“ _Jack_.”

“You know what I think?” he grinned suddenly.

Elsa blinked in surprised, then stared down at him suspiciously. “...what do you think?”

“I think this means that we have to hurry up and get your magic in gear so you can get back to the important stuff. Like building snowmen.”

“Jack,” Elsa breathed, and couldn't contain her breath of laughter—though she tried, if the hand that rose up to her mouth was anything to go by. “Sometimes—you are so strange.”

Jack Frost merely grinned, and sent a tiny flurry dancing her way. 

If she only knew.

. * * * .


	15. - black sand -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/5/14_.

. * * * .

  
\- _black sand_ -

  
. * * * . 

It was hard not to assume the worst, the first time he arrived in the middle of a nightmare.

 _Muffled cries and stilted screams_ —Jack leapt from the windowsill to where Elsa twisted helplessly in bed, her bare fingers trembling as they clutched and clawed at the thin air. One second he was flying—and the next he was hovering over her— _staff clattering to the floor, sliding against the layer of ice encrusted into the rug_ —and his cold hands were reaching for hers, catching the blasts of ice that shot through them.

The room was impossibly cold.

“ _Elsa_ ,” he breathed, trying to hold her little wrists still. She kicked and jerked away from him, again and again, as tiny, pained whimpers ripped themselves from her chest, and Jack adjusted his grip, so as not to hurt her— _so as not to let her freeze the flames in the hearth, nor the castle—nor anyone who might have heard the Princess' screams and might come rushing in_ —

“ _No_!” Elsa cried, wrenching her arm away from him. Jack's head pounded as she curled away from him, clasping and clenching her little fists over her heart. Jack reached for her— _tried to lay a hand upon her shoulder, to rouse her awake_ —but Elsa tensed and coiled, and the soft sheets beneath her became slabs of ice, crackling with magic as it spread out from her center in jagged streaks. It wove into the air, staining the fabric hangings over her bed, marking the walls and floor—

Jack Frost jerked back his hand with a hiss—then, breathing heavily—dove back toward Elsa's little, huddled form, and took hold of her shoulders in both of his hands—“ _Elsa!”_ —and she laid still as stone within his grasp, her skin icy to the touch, hands glowing blue with the magic that swirled around her heart. She wasn't responding. Harder, Jack Frost shook her—touched her face, clasped her wrists—but the magic only glowed brighter, deeper. Colder.

“ _Elsa—wake up!_ ”

Within his frantic grip, a sudden gasp escaped from Elsa's heaving chest, and her eyes snapped open wide—fierce, frightened, darting over Jack's face without recognition, blue with terror. She sucked in a loud, trembling breath— _and then another, too quick and too shallow_ —and slowly, realization bloomed in her eyes, and breath found its way back into Jack's lungs, and then she was breaking before his eyes—first in sharp, panicky breaths, then in deep, wretched sobs.

Jack scooped her into his arms, pressing her cold skin to the wall of his chest, and she clung to his hooded sweatshirt, digging her fingers into the fabric and sobs wracked her body, fierce and unforgiving. He wrapped his long arms around her as she clung to him, her little frame stiff and shaking with shock, jerking with too-tight nerves, and Jack simply held her, making useless hushing sounds, feeling more helpless than ever.

“ _Elsa?”_ cried a voice from farther down the hall, rife with panic. Jack's head snapped suddenly in the direction of the voice— _her mother's_ —and a soft sound escaped Elsa's throat, and little fingers scrabbled at his hoodie, digging deeper into his chest. “ _Elsa?_ ”

“ _Shhhh_ ,” Jack tried to soothe, cradling the back of her head in his long fingers as he shifted on the ice coating the bed. He tried to lay her down over the pillow—her mother's racing footsteps were growing nearer, and the King's were twice as loud, twice as fast—but Elsa cried out when he tried to extract her from his chest, her little nails scraping marks into the pale flesh of his arms through his sleeves. She clung to him harder, and the sobs renewed with a vengeance, louder and fiercer.

“ _No!”_ she rasped, tears sinking down her cheeks, drowning her voice. “ _No—don't leave—_ ”

“ _I won't_ ,” Jack urged her, staring hard into her wide-open eyes, gently grasping the wrists glued to the front of his hoodie. “ _I won't. I'm not going anywhere,_ ” he whispered, desperately, as the sound of heavy footfalls came to a slamming halt outside the door. “ _I promise._ ”

The door burst open just as Jack shifted away—no more than an inch, just enough so that when Elsa's mother rushed forward and swept her into her arms, there was nothing to anchor her down—nothing holding her back. Elsa's own hands had still been outstretched, desperately reaching out for the Guardian she knew was there.

“ _Elsa!_ ” her mother breathed, collapsing to the floor with her little girl in her arms. “ _Elsa, it's all right!”_ It was then that Elsa realized the state of her bedroom— _the shards of ice jutting out from the ridge of the headboard, the flames dead in the hearth, replaced by glittering swords of ice_ —and tremors overtook her little frame once more, rapid and unyielding. Elsa's face buried into the crook of her mother's neck, hiding and shaking, so she did not see what Jack saw—the helpless look that passed between the King and Queen, the look of resignation in his wise, old ruler's eyes— _lost_ , they screamed, that they were _lost lost lost lostlostlost_ —the look of fear, pure and simple, on her mother's face.

The shiver that rattled down the Queen's spine.

“ _Elsa_ ,” her mother repeated, quietly, evenly, even as her lips trembled. “ _It's all right, Elsa,_ ” she swallowed, and finally, “ _It was just a dream. Just a bad dream_.”

The King moved slowly as he turned and made way toward the door, peering into the hallway left and right, to ensure that they were alone. The room was cast in an eerie blue light, thick with the moonlight filtering through the cracks between the drapes— _thrown open wide, along with the window, in Jack's haste_ —letting in the chill of the ocean through the salty air. The door shut with a heavy, echoing sound, ringing in Jack Frost's ears as he watched it all, everything, from off to the side, invisible.

Elsa's little cries were quieting, weakening into sniffles and small hiccups as exhaustion overpowered her fear. The King stepped over the ice along the floor, careful not to slip, and let out a long, shaky breath when he took in the sight of his family, curled against one another on the ice, shaking with fear and cold. His breath curled out from his lips in an elegant spiral. His wife stared up at him, pleading, and his eyes softened as he stumbled to his knees beside them, wrapping them both in what little warmth he had.

“ _Papa,”_ Elsa whispered brokenly into the fabric of her mother's nightgown. “ _Papa—I'm sorry_.”

“ _Hush_ ,” soothed the Queen, holding her daughter tighter. Her throat was tight, clamping down on the words she longed to say. “ _Hush, little one. It will—we'll—”_

“ _It will be all right,_ ” whispered the King, trailing a heavy hand over the head of blonde hair, still tucked away into her mother's shoulder. “ _It will be all right_.”

 

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Slowly, Elsa peered over her mother's shoulder  
and spotted him in the far corner against the wall.  
  
His knees were tucked into his chest—his long, gangly legs crossed at his front—and his chin rested atop his arms.  
He smiled at her— _a little sadly, a little slowly_ —and gave a half-hearted, little wave of his fingers. He was still there.

   
Elsa laid her cheek over her mother's shoulder and stared at him, barely blinking,  
until she fell asleep.

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. * * * .

Two shadowy figures appeared on the wind not long after,  
in a river of golden sand and a flurry of fluttering wings.  
  
. * * * .

 


	16. - thin ice -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/6/14_. I'm technically adding this chapter a day early, but I figure 10:44pm is close enough and I'm not going to have any time to do it tomorrow, so. :)
> 
> Also, my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)! :) For anyone who is interested. I just had a brief blip of post-book freak-out over the latest update to The Lunar Chronicles, but otherwise my tumblr has become a veritable shrine to all things Jack & Elsa.
> 
> It's becoming a problem. D:
> 
> Anyway. FIC.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- thin ice -_  
  
. * * * .

 

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It was the first time Jack Frost saw Elsa cry.

And for many, many years, it was the only.

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. * * * .

 

High on the castle's rooftop, three figures stood at the peak of a single tower; the wind howled through the mountains, and the air was thick with ocean mist. The Moon gleamed down at them from its home in the sky, but the dark of night did not bother them.

 _All children have nightmares_ , said Sandy, his expression apologetic but honest. _It is... as it has always been._

Jack scoffed and shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his hoodie, but that wasn't good enough. One hand flicked out to the side, and his breath was sharp and clear, the immediate air around him freezing.

“This?” he whispered, cold and harsh. “Like _this_?”

Sandy only shrugged. No shapes appeared above his head, but Jack read his face, anyway.

_Sometimes._

“This isn't the work of Pitch,” Toothiana said quietly.

At first, Jack felt annoyed— _stop trying so damn hard to reassure me_ , his mind spat, then stalled, skipping on its own thoughts. Tooth, however—as Jack was swiftly reminded—wasn't speaking for his benefit alone.

“There was black sand, yes, but natural,” she went on, deep in thought. “The workings of the boogeyman are obviously tainted, and have over the centuries become so steeped with ill-intent—”

“What do you mean _become_?”

Tooth paused, glancing over at Jack. Her look was almost apologetic, but that didn't make any sense.

“Fear wasn't always what it is now,” she said softly. “It used to be that Fear, when cast properly, could keep loved ones safe just as well as any of the centers could.” He almost didn't hear her, when she whispered, “Maybe, in some centuries, even better.”

Jack stared, his jaw flexing painfully. He didn't know what to say.

He didn't even know where to begin.

“But Pitch's newest dreams were filled with unnatural doses of pain and suffering— _this_ —Elsa's nightmare, is not like that.” Jack balked—but Toothiana pushed forward. “ _This_ is borne from a child's system trying to strengthen itself, to overcome fear by itself. It wasn't planted there. It's the fear trying to purge itself from her system.”

“ _What_ are you talking about?” Jack demanded, seemingly at the end of his rope.

The Tooth Fairy and the Sandman shared a troubled look. There was the issue of nightmares at hand—and _Pitch,_ the bastard—which was obviously at the front of their silent communication, but Jack couldn't help feeling like they were talking about him, too, somehow, with that guarded link. It annoyed him.

“A child's dream is where they often discover what matters to them most,” Tooth explained quietly, no doubt on Sandy's behalf, who nodded silently beside her in assent. “It is where they battle their inner-demons.”

“ _But if_ —”

“It was not Pitch,” Toothiana said, voice firm with conviction. “I am sure of it.”

“Then what she was dreaming about?” Jack turned to Sandy, breathless. “Was it about the accident? Anna? She's been talking about her a lot more often now—is she afraid of getting caught? By who?” His breaths hung heavy in the salty air, but they were all he could hear.

An uneasy expression had taken over the Sand Man's face.

“Oh, come _on_ —” Jack growled in frustration, running a hand through his unruly, silvery hair.

“ _Jack_ ,” Tooth scolded quietly. “If you wish to know, you will have to ask Elsa yourself, when she has recovered. Do not pressure Sandy to reveal that which is not his to share.”

He Frost sent her a stiff, stern look, but said nothing. She was right. He knew that.

His hands balled into fists at his sides, one hand clenching unforgivingly against his staff. Toothiana's eyes bored holes into the side of his skull, but Sandy couldn't seem to look at him. A heavy, sinking feeling settled into Jack's stomach, and he glanced to the side with an awkward ruffle of his hair beneath his fingers. He knew he should apologize, but... the moment didn't feel right. He would have to do it later, when he could talk to Sandy privately. When he had his head on straight.

Unsettled, Jack loosened his shoulders with a few jerky shrugs and released a deep breath, willing himself to think. To calm down. It didn't really work, but he figured that this was the best he was going to get.

“This can't have been just any old nightmare,” Jack muttered finally, mouth dry—certain, for once, about this. _Ugh._ Why did everything suddenly sound like such a whine? Even still, Jack jutted out his chin and crossed his arms and declared, “It wasn't normal.”

The left side of Toothiana's mouth quirked upwards, but the rest of her face looked pinched, like it might crumble at any second. Sandy, too, looked no better off.

“Elsa's not exactly normal, either,” she reminded him.

Slowly, Jack turned away.

What the hell was normal supposed to be, anyway?

A long moment passed, then Tooth cleared her throat. Gentle, but unyielding. It pretty much captured how she was, most of the time. Tough, like him. It was one of the reasons why he probably trusted her the most, out of any of the other Guardians.

Jack knew he was being a bit headstrong—okay, a _lot—_ but he couldn't really bring himself to give in. Not yet.

Not with this.

“Sandy?” she asked quietly, behind Jack's back. A bit stubbornly, Jack refused to turn back around. It wasn't until he saw the trails of golden sand streaming through the darkness that Jack's eyes widened, and he realized that the Sand Man had gone.

Jack spun on the balls of his feet, his bare skin sliding against the slippery slope of the shingles, his hands flying out to the sides. His eyes were trained on the gleaming rivers of dream dust meandering through the night sky—and its owner, who was already to the next outcropping of castle spires. Jack reared back, as if to follow—

—and was met with the unfamiliar, unmistakable, formidable glare of the Tooth Fairy.  


. * * * .

 

“This is crazy!” Jack snapped, pacing the forest floor like a madman. He _felt_ like a madman. Icy tendrils snaked across the hard ground beneath his feet, hissing with cold. “I should _be_ there for her!”

“And you will be,” Toothiana replied, patience thinning. She floated off to the side, wings fluttering madly as he stormed past. “But the other children need you, too.”

 _They can wait,_ Jack glared upward, then snapped his eyes to the ground. The dirt bed was frozen beneath his feet. “A couple of days without a few snowflakes isn't going to hurt anybody,” he pointed out, gaze icy and hard.

“ _Jack,”_ Tooth chided. “You are more to them than just a couple of snowflakes. They need you. They've been _waiting_ for you. How long has it been since you—”

“I've been watching over them _plenty,_ all right?” Jack spat, indignation coiling rapidly in his chest. “But thanks for the vote of confidence. Don't worry, I'm sure another one of my screw-ups won't be long off. Seems I'm a bit overdue according to Guardian standards.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Toothiana breathed, her voice a cool hiss of air in his ear. “You stop this nonsense— _right_ now. I won't even dignify that with a response, because that is an entirely different argument, and a stupid one at that.”

“Great,” Jack snarled, feeling his hackles raise. Warning bells rang in the back of his head—Tooth rarely ever used crude language—but he ignored them. “Even better. _Thanks._ ”

“Jack, _no_ one is questioning your ability as a Guardian!”

“Really? 'Cuz it sure as hell sounds like you are.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Jack opened his mouth—to apologize, to protest, even he didn't know—but Toothiana held up a silencing hand.

“We've _all_ struggled with this, Jack,” she said, soft, but commanding. “The first assignment is always the hardest— _trust me_. But the rest of the world needs you, and at night while she's sleeping, there's only so much you can do for her.”

Jack said nothing, and valiantly tried to steel his expression.

She may as well have punched him in the gut.

“So I'm useless, is essentially what you're saying,” Jack scoffed, then nearly cringed. It sounded dangerously close to a whine. He felt more pathetic than ever.

Toothiana looked at him, sympathetic but firm, a little exasperated and annoyed, but unrelenting. “You know that's not true,” she reprimanded, voice fierce and low. Jack swiftly turned away. “This is the Sand Man's territory,” Toothiana said, more loudly, at his stubborn back. “This is his responsibility—he can help protect her dreams better than anyone else could.” She paused. “Do you trust Sandy?”

Jack rounded on her, eyes wild.

“Of course I do!” he snapped.

Her eyes narrowed when she hissed, “Then start showing it.”

Jack's lips parted. He stared at Toothiana, stunned.

She released a heavy, tired sigh, but she did not apologize. “I know you are worried,” Toothiana said, very softly. “It's part of the reason why you're such a good Guardian—how deeply you care. But having a special assignment doesn't mean that you are alone in this... And there's a reason why there are so many of us, working together.”

Jack said nothing.

He knew she was right. Even if he did not want to admit it. Even if he'd known it all along.

Or thought he had, anyway.

“Look,” she tried again, and Jack could hear the tremor of pain in her voice, the incredible task of trying to explain a difficult situation to someone determined not to understand; the wavering sigh of someone who wanted to make it better, but wasn't sure how.

He felt like a child.

“It's fine,” he said, shortly and softly, just barely audible under his breath. Toothiana stilled, surprised that he'd spoken. “I get it.”

Tooth's lips thinned into a grim line, and she drifted down to sit on a nearby tree stump, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“It's hard,” she whispered, but he didn't let her finish.

“Yeah,” Jack huffed out an icy breath, unable to keep a scoff from curling at his lips. “Let me guess: better time management skills, right? Are you going to hand me a ledger and recommend that I keep a schedule of all the kids I've been neglecting?” he asked icily. (Since when had he gotten so nasty? He was being unreasonable, but he didn't care. He hadn't acted like this in so long, not since before—)

“ _Sharing_ is hard, Jack,” Tooth sighed, and he quieted. “Sharing responsibility. Sharing children... _your_ children. Especially the special ones.”

Jack stilled. His eyes widened, ever so slightly.

“What are you talking about?” Jack whispered.

And Tooth smiled, soft and sad, and patted the space on the stump beside her. Jack didn't move.

“It's all right, you know,” she whispered slowly, watching him carefully, like she could see right through him. “We've all been there... The connection a Guardian has with their special assignment is unique, and sometimes... sometimes it can feel like you're the only one capable of truly understanding what they need. The only one they trust enough to let in.”

“I don't...” Jack whispered, even as his stomach clenched. “That's not what I...”

“It's okay,” she said again, eyes soft. “This is your first. It's hard to let someone else take care of something that's so important to you. Even your friends.”

 _Someone_ , Jack's mind whispered, unable to quiet. _Some_ one _that's important to me_.

“And it's not just about trusting your teammates, though that's at the heart of it,” Tooth went on. “It's one of the first true reminders we experience that, eventually, we're going to have to let them go.”

Jack swallowed.

“I know that,” he whispered, mouth dry.

Tooth's amethyst eyes sparkled at him, and he was able to see it then, all the years behind them.

“I know you do,” she smiled, old and young and so very, very wise. “But we still have a funny way of holding onto things, even though we know that they won't last forever.”

 _Even though they won't live forever_.

“Tell you what,” Tooth said gently, with a bit of forced brightness in her tone. “Why don't you go make your rounds... and then check and see if Arendelle's late summer morning could use a bit of early frost.”

He didn't really mean to, but Jack sort of smiled. Lopsided and damaged, but it was there. Sort of.

“Early September,” he mused aloud, feeling some of the tension lift from his shoulders. He hadn't realized how heavy it was until now. His body ached in ways it never had before. It was weird. “Mother Nature won't mind?”

To his surprise, Toothiana laughed, light and sweet. “Hopefully not, as long as it's only just this once. She finds your sense of humor endearing, but she doesn't share it. At least—not when _she's_ not the one who gets to make the call. Oh, whatever. Just tread lightly—you're already on thin ice as it is.”

His eyes shifted down to the forest floor. Ice sparkled up at him, tauntingly.

“Oh,” breathed Toothiana. A hand rose to cover her mouth in horror, once she realized what she'd said, but she caught it before it could reach halfway. “Jack, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Jack—I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right,” Jack said evenly, though he wouldn't meet her gaze. She was the keeper of his human memories, after all; she knew, probably better than anyone else... And it _was_ all right, for the most part. He guessed.

“ _Jack_ —”

“Hey, Tooth.”

He could hear her swallow, even from however many feet away.

“Yes?”

“You said that... the first assignment is the hardest.”

 _Trust me_.

“What did you...?”

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_What did you mean by that?_

_Where is yours, now?_

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“Does it get easier?” he asked, instead.

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She didn't answer.

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. * * * .


	17. - routine again -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/8/14_. This is a short filler drabble, so I'll go ahead and post an extra one today. :) I wouldn't normally do this because I like to make sure that I have enough drabbles lined up to keep to my once-a-day schedule... but it's the weekend!
> 
> Also, my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com) features a fun little sidebar that clearly displays my writing progress for all of my WIP stories. If you're ever curious about any of my fics and where they are on my priority list, that handy little box is the surest way to check. 
> 
> Thanks again, everyone! :) I'm really enjoying all of these comments. Thank you for leaving so many!

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _routine again_ -  
  
. * * * .

Jack got better at balancing.

His rounds became routine again. Where he might have passed over before—towns and villages and cities, urban or remote—Jack now stopped to take a look around. He hung back to watch and to guide, to conure up a few more flurries and to start a few extra snowball fights. He stayed just a little bit longer during snowstorms. Sometimes it was to ensure that no one but the plows would dare drive over such awful streets, so that the schools would have their snow days, and businesses would close down, so parents' cars stayed off the roads while they took their children sledding at the park. Sometimes, especially near the polar regions, it was to keep the already subzero temperatures at bay. He called away the winds from the small huts of the tundras, and braced against the frost that would have otherwise destroyed farmers' crops. He lingered to help little ones make snow men. To deep freeze a couple of icy ponds.

And then late afternoon would set in Arendelle, and Jack would return, always, just a little after dinnertime.

  
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Jack waited for Elsa to tell him about the nightmare.  
  
He never mentioned it, himself; she didn't mention it either.

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But he was there, every evening, as she fell asleep.

And Jack figured that was all right, for now.  


. * * * .


	18. - as usual -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elsa's first year with Jack is almost complete... and time is starting to catch up with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/8/14_. Here we are... the last drabble of part **( II )**. :)

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _as usual_ -  
  
. * * * .

“Jack,” she said late one morning, just before he took his leave. It was autumn, finally— _a proper excuse to spread his magic throughout her realm over night_ —and Jack Frost was starting to feel like he could breathe again. (Jack could almost taste the winter in the air. Almost.) His fingers stilled over the edge of the window frame and he looked back, an easy grin on his lips through the dawn. It was becoming even easier to paste on a smile now, whether he was in his world or hers, whether he felt like it or not.

The good thing was that, whenever he was in her world—in _her_ world, not just Arendelle, not just the realm that housed it—he felt like it.

“Please don't be angry with them,” Elsa whispered, out of the blue. Jack blinked down at her, completely off-guard; it wouldn't be until hours later that he'd realize that this was exactly what she'd meant to do.

It didn't take much for him in this moment to understand who she was talking about.

“They're doing the best they can,” she continued, pressing into his silence. “They're doing what they think is best for me.”  
  
(Her voice echoed in his ears, dancing off the walls of her room and into his brain. They reverberated off the ceiling, the floor. Her sanctuary.

Her cage.)

_What they're doing is wrong._

Against his will, his eyes dropped down to the white cotton gloves on her fingertips. It had been months since the Accident, a few weeks since her Nightmare, and Elsa still wore her gloves to bed. The only time she seemed to take them off was when she was practicing her magic with him—usually at night when Anna was asleep and the risk of being caught was slim. When the servants wouldn't notice sparks of blue light shining out from the cracks underneath the door. When her parents wouldn't slink by...

Her fingers twitched over the thick comforter, flexing beneath his gaze.  
  
“What if there's something better?” he whispered, staring at her gloves.

“Then I don't know what that better is,” Elsa said. Jack lifted his gaze to her eyes. She was looking at him, and he had to remind himself— _he_ was the Guardian. _He_ was—  
  
Elsa stared up at him and asked, “Do you?”

Jack Frost swallowed.

Then slowly shook his head.

Elsa breathed deep, and a long moment passed between them. The fresh, salty, chilly air of the ocean floated about the room, thanks to the open window. As a general rule of thumb, the doors, windows, and gates were hardly ever open... which meant that Jack Frost tended to break this code often and easily. Tried to break it as often as possible.

But only when it wouldn't get her into trouble.  
  
“It's better this way,” she whispered, staring down at her bedsheets. “Anna, not knowing. Me, being given the time I need to learn how to control this... This is what's best, for now. This will keep us safe.” Elsa instinctively curled her hands over her heart, probably without her notice, and Jack knew that it was not her own heart that she was thinking of.  
  
“I don't blame them,” she said. “And I hope you won't, either.”

 _Seven-years-old_ , Jack thought again. It'd almost been a year since he'd met her. Since everything he thought he knew about being a Guardian flew right out the proverbial window.  
  
Jack offered a nod, quick and acquiescing, and tried not to feel too useless. His grin was genuine, even if it was tight and a little sad, even if it made his eyes feel heavy.

“Okay,” Jack whispered, as a cool ocean breeze floated past. He sighed. “All right,” Jack said, a little more loudly, and some of the heaviness lifted away. “You win.”

As usual.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, huffing out a soft sigh, but Jack held out a pacifying hand before she could protest. His grin was a lot more amused this time, _and then so was hers_ , and Jack tossed and caught his staff in his right hand, adjusting his grip, and prepared for the ocean's waves and wind to bring him back. He didn't exactly like what she'd said on any level, but there was little he could do; it'd been a little less than a year and he'd already discovered that it was nearly impossible to argue with her. Mostly because she was usually right.

“Your Majesty,” he offered with a ridiculous flourish, bowing so deep and so low that his nose nearly touched the ground, and with enough grave solemnity to make Elsa to laugh outright. She clapped a hand over her mouth, lest she be too loud, and her shoulders shook with quiet giggles as Jack leapt up, smiling.

“See you,” he whispered, and braced himself.

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“Jack!”

He halted immediately, stomach lurching forward almost painfully. His fingers dragged along the wooden frame, digging into the grain.  
Jack tried not to look too sore when he looked back at her, curled comfortably atop her blankets, but it was rather difficult.  
  
He also managed not to grunt too loudly while he cracked his neck, wincing.

“Yeah?” he said, a little brokenly, rubbing at his stiff shoulders.

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Jack saw the look on her face, and froze.

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“I hope you don't blame yourself, either.”

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. * * * .


	19. - the vanity -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/9/14_. I am dying for a Jelsa fanmix. :( If anyone has any great 8tracks recommendations or tumblr links, please let me know!

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**( III )**

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. * * * .  
  
Little by little,  
little Elsa's power grew.

And so did she.  
  
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. * * * .

\- _the vanity_ -

. * * * .

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“You've been battling that same strand of hair for an hour.”

“You're exaggerating,” Elsa replied smoothly, not even bothering to look away from her reflection in the mirror. Jack hung off to the side, alternating between leaning heavily against his staff in dismayed boredom and catapulting himself about the room with spurts of sporadic, boundless energy. Elsa remained on the cushioned stool of her vanity, carefully tucking her braided hair into place. The new addition of furniture had come as a present this winter from her parents, for her eighth birthday just a few weeks prior; Jack, naturally, had gifted her with a blizzard.

No contest, really.

( _Except_. Except there really wasn't, considering Anna's. Jack hadn't been there to celebrate during the private, little family gathering over early morning tea and pastries; between the second and third rounds of crumb-cake, a portrait of the two of them, smeared with oil pastels, had been placed gently and gingerly into Elsa's hands. It was still in the top drawer of Elsa's vanity, just to her left.)

“Elsa,” Jack laughed, if only to keep himself from begging. After forty minutes—he was close. “Your braid is fine. Why go through all the extra work of pinning it up even more? And what's with the ribbon?”

“This is the way my mother wears it,” she explained evenly, twisting and pulling hair in all sorts of confusing directions with nimble fingers. He thought she was doing a rather steady job of it—whatever it was that she was doing—and Jack was just starting to allow himself to accept that hope was on the horizon when a sharp, frustrated sigh blew out through her nose and the braided hair fell down the length of her back. _Finally_ , thought Jack, as he began to grin with relief... until she lifted her braid in her hands and started all over again.

“ _Oh, for_ —Elsa, come on!” he exclaimed and okay, _now_ he might be begging. “Just ask your governess lady to help you or something!”

“I will not,” she replied, eyes narrowing at her reflection, deep in concentration. “I'm practicing. I have to learn how to do this myself.”

“Well, then take your gloves off at least.”

“ _Jack._ ”

“What? It would make it easier.”

“Yes, well, that depends on what, exactly, you are suggesting might be—”  
  
Her fingers slipped, and a short wisp of hair from her bangs came undone, but Elsa's hands were already preoccupied as it was, and so it fell into her eyes, the perfect hair out of its perfect place.

“ _Frostbite_ ,” she muttered, with a look of rare, unfiltered frustration, and Jack couldn't help it, when his hand didn't quite make it over his mouth as a snicker leapt out, and— “Stop laughing!” she demanded, glaring at him through her reflection. “Jack—I am not _—oh_ , for goodness' sake! I— _”_ But she was starting to crack, too, so it couldn't be blamed _all_ on Jack when he doubled over, one hand braced against his staff for support, his other hand clutching at his stomach, catching on the pocket of his—

Jack was suddenly on the floor, with something wet and cold and hard— _and suspiciously like a snowball_ —sliding down his face.

By the time he had wiped away the snow from his eyes, Elsa was already slipping one glove back onto her hand, gently stretching it across her wrist.

“ _What the_ —what was that?” he blinked, pressing a hand back onto the floor to lift himself up. She looked down at him from her little cushioned stool, calm and proper and serene, and a few snowflakes slipped into his eye. He squinted.

“What was what, Jack?”

Jack Frost gaped while Elsa glanced down at him, curious and serene; the snowfall danced outside the window, covering the ground with a thick blanket of white, slipping through a sky of inky blue, and Jack continued to stare at Elsa from his awkward position on the floor, as ice flakes nipped at his nose.

“Did you... did you just— _peg_ me in the face with a snowball?” he managed at last.

“Jack,” she said patiently, and he swore that her voice was almost a sigh. “You know as well as I do that today I am practicing self-control.”

And then she smirked at him.

His eyes were obviously playing tricks on him. Jack squeezed one eye shut, then peered at her through the other. He switched sides, then back again— _open shut them, open, shut them_ —and by the time he was through, his vision was still a little blurry, but it would have to do.

Realization dawned.

“You're... kidding,” he said, eyes wide, and his voice may or may not have been a whisper, like something made of pure, reverent awe.

“Please, Jack,” Elsa nearly laughed, then reached over to take hold of the blue ribbon that had fallen to the floor. She offered him one more humoring glance, then redirected her gaze back to the mirror, where she watched her reflection at work— _fingers dancing through her hair, a satin blue ribbon trailing behind_ —and recited, “A proper princess does not _kid_.”

Jack looked up at her, still hardly believing his eyes. A sharp breath of laughter escaped him, and a wild grin stretched his mouth wide, awed and dumbstruck and thrilled and so very, very proud.

He'd created a monster.

. * * * .

Even still, he couldn't quite convince her to engage in an impromptu snowball fight with him in her room that night.  
No matter what persuasions he offered, she wouldn't agree.  
  
But at least now Jack knew for sure that, one day, she might.  
  
. * * * .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** has created [a lovely little doodle for this chapter](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84741596922/it-may-be-a-daily-thing-i-am-not-sure-more)!


	20. - control freak -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/10/14_. I've hit 100 (and now 101) kudos! :) What a fun milestone. Thanks, everyone!! 
> 
> Here, have another daily update to celebrate! (What is this, the tenth consecutive day?) And the twentieth chapter? Milestones all around!

. * * * .  
  
\- _control freak_ -  
  
. * * * .

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Elsa was eight-and-a-half when Jack started to notice.

It started with the little things. Perfect marks, for example, on all her subjects. Her tutors were not generous with their praise, especially not toward young Elsa's ears, but they were most assuredly impressed whilst speaking with her parents. She demonstrated a sound knowledge in a number of different areas and was proficient in at least two of the Old languages, along with a thorough, fluid grasp of the New. She was articulate and concise, and thought carefully before she spoke. She held great wisdom beyond her years and housed a fine mind, all fit for a Queen.

He was able to attend her lessons, once or twice, on a few rare winter afternoons. They always took place in the library, far away from the corner of the castle where Anna received hers, and Jack could easily slip onto the balcony and watch from outside... until the her stiff, stuffy tutors were distracted long enough for a chilly wind to slam against the window— _the one that always seemed to open by itself, how curious_ —and Jack finished the rest of her lectures by hovering over their shoulders, mid-air. He made faces constantly, but Elsa allowed him no fun aside from a knowing smile—not until her lessons were finished, for certain. And she didn't listen to him either, when he floated aimlessly above her tutors' heads and teasingly tried to whisper the answers to her assessments; she was too smart to listen to him as it was, and especially then.

But there was more. Jack noticed often that she liked to keep her things neat and tidy, so she could always find them when she needed them. Although she never mentioned it, he could tell that this was very important to her, that her things be right where she left them. Her mother's silver-plated hairbrush. The shelves filled with her own personal library of books, organized precisely in a way that made sense only to Elsa. Everything had a rightful place. Her favorite inkwell, one of the many gifts from her father, which sat at the corner of her desk. Her sister's drawing. All seventeen pairs of gloves.

Her posture was impeccable— _chin up, eyes forward, shoulders back_ —and her manners were refined. (Or so the castle _thought._ They'd never seen Elsa after one too many games of chess, or after an especially dissatisfying conclusion to a new book; honestly, Jack wasn't sure if he was disappointed in her choice of _frostbite_ as an expletive, or jealous that he hadn't thought of it first.) She was unfailingly polite to everyone, though the number of visitors to the castle seemed to be growing fewer and fewer with each passing month. All of the foreign diplomats were astounded by Elsa's respectful air and careful words and rapt attention. (What they called _young grace_ and _respectful maturity_ , Jack called being _terrified out of her mind_.) Everyone spoke with great admiration of the young Princess' sharp mind and well-bred manners, her quiet disposition and great potential. Elsa took these comments to heart while Jack took them in stride; he tried to see them as they were intended, as compliments instead of bars on a cage.

Even with plentiful practice, it took Elsa some time before she could manage her hair with any sort of satisfaction. Jack always thought her handiwork was fine, but as Elsa pointed out, it wasn't ever _quite_ right, or _just_ so. (Either the ribbon was stretched too tight or the knot was tied too loose, or the braid was slanted, uneven. Jack was never quite sure, but Elsa saw everything clearly, all the details and imperfections and flaws. She saw them with determination, with sharp eyes and, sometimes, fearsome resolve.) Her hair always looked fine, of course, but Jack had always known that it was never really about the hair.

Once, Jack thought she was actually tempted to ask him for assistance, but she never did. He was proud of her determination, her tenacity, and reminded himself that he wouldn't always be around. That she needed—and _wanted_ —to learn how to take care of herself, how to be comfortable on her own.

He told himself he wouldn't have trusted his hands to really know what to do with it, either.

. * * * .


	21. - only alone -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/11/14_.

. * * * .  
  
\- _only alone_ -  
  
. * * * .

 

Or, eight things Jack Frost learned while Princess Elsa of Arendelle was eight-years-old: 

1\. Elsa was contradictory in the strangest of ways; she seemingly had no trouble asking others for help, as long as they were her addle-brained tutors or the servants—or at least when they offered her assistance; the rudeness of _inconveniencing_ someone was still a fear of hers, no matter how many times the servants told her otherwise. (It took Jack a while to realize that what these instances had in common was that they involved people who surrounded her, people who were a part of her daily life, but were _strangers—_ distant and accommodating and polite—but strangers, all the same.) She never once asked her parents for anything, however, neither big nor small. She rarely asked anything of Jack, either, though he thought that might have more to do with the fact that he was already there to give, and therefore rarely offered her any opportunity to ask.

2\. Answering with, “ _You call that a snowball, Elsa?_ ” was not, in fact, a clever diversion tactic.

3\. The cold season was especially harsh that year, for as hot as summer had been, winter returned with a vengeance; the thick, woven draft guard that lined the space between the floor and her bedroom door was no doubt placed there by the servants as a way to keep out the cold... Jack, however, wondered at the irony of the fact that it just as easily trapped the cold _in_.

4\. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Anna had started talking and singing to the portraits on the walls. For months, Jack wondered if he should tell Elsa—that her little sister spilled out all her secrets in the late afternoon, while everyone else was busy going about their day. A castled filled with bustling servants, but no one noticed little Anna, sitting at the feet of an old grandfather clock, invisible in plain sight. Ultimately, Jack kept this to himself.

5\. When Elsa whispered late one night, “ _Jack, what happened to your little sister?_ ” he realized something: that Elsa deserved the truth, even if he didn't know it, himself. (“ _She grew up_ ,” he replied, finally, and hoped that it wasn't a lie.)

6\. Elsa liked to sleep by the window, no matter the season. Jack assumed it was because she liked to look outside at the waves on the sea while she slept, or—more reasonably—because of the chill from the wind beyond the glass. It was hard to tell sometimes, whether she minded warmth at all, all bundled up in all four seasons, but she never complained.

7\. When alone, and only alone, Elsa sang.

8\. It was not so much a revelation as it was the start of another question, still left unanswered.

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“I thought you were going to start wearing your hair differently? Like your mother's?”  
  
“I decided not to just yet... I'll wait a bit longer, I think.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah... I like my braid the way it is.”

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Jack couldn't really explain it,  
why that made him feel the way it did.

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Relieved.

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. * * * .


	22. - reserved for -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/12/14_. Ha! Just made it! (11:58pm)
> 
> [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)!

. * * * .

\- _reserved for_ -  
  
. * * * .

It was autumn and Elsa was nine-years-old.

Ever more resigned to her fate— _her training, her isolation, her obligations_ —Elsa had by then adjusted to a lifestyle of quiet solitude almost completely. As Elsa's personal library grew— _as her books held thicker spines and deeper characters and richer plots_ —so, too, did her ability to find companionship among the many quiet daylight hours. Elsa learned to fill her time with study and her world with contemplation, with solitaire games of strategy and challenge, with art and philosophy and language... with magic, but only in the dark.

Meanwhile, Jack's arguments for his daily trips to Arendelle were growing flimsier with each passing year, and so he was similarly resigned to a weight of his own; spring, summer, and fall were spent with equal attention to the different peoples of the different realms, with fewer visits and briefer stays for all towns and cities and villages, all across the map. He would go days— _weeks_ —before seeing the mountain peaks of Arendelle again, and even then would usually only have an hour to spare—sometimes only whilst Elsa slept.

But _winter_ —

Winter was reserved for Arendelle.

( _And he could feel it coming_.)

He'd told Toothiana and North that he was off to Arendelle's realm for a routine check on the troll's surrogate son, the little blond boy, Kristoff—( _“What? He's an ice miner—what do you expect me to do?”_ )—but they knew as well as he did that a little detour along the way was only inevitable. It was well past midnight when Jack swung by her room, expecting to find her fast asleep.

Instead she was at the window, waiting for him.

And it was all he could do to keep from rousing the entire castle— _what with the flailing staff and the bright burst of energy and the exclamation, which, really, he hadn't meant to let out_ —and the next thing he knew, Jack Frost was being ushered into a darkened bedroom by a scowling and _shhh_ -ing Elsa who was still wearing her day clothes and frowning at him and _holy shit—_

“Elsa _,_ ” Jack whispered. “Have you... have you been crying?”

The window pane slid into place in its frame and, once again, the world was shut out. Elsa did not look at him, but she did not try to hide, either, when she carefully brushed her bare fingers over the wetness beneath her eyes.

“It's... a kind of training,” she said quietly, and Jack didn't buy it, not for one second.

“Training...” he echoed, brows slanting thickly together. “Right.”

Elsa's glare was stern, but Jack had years of practice, so he glared right back. “Sit,” he commanded, and when she didn't, he sat down, anyway. It wasn't until his legs began to lose feeling, crossed stiffly beneath him, that Elsa moved to join him.

“I'm not lying,” she said immediately, and _this_ was the tricky part, looking her straight in the eye and knowing for sure if what he saw was real. ( _He couldn't really blame her, not when words like_ conceal _and_ don't feel _had been drilled into her head over the years, so many times that they should have lost all meaning—but they never did._ )

He let out a deep breath, long and shaky.

“All right,” Jack said slowly, trying to withhold his judgment until he had a clearer picture. It wasn't easy. (It was never easy.) “Will you explain it to me, then?”

She was quiet for a long moment, but this wasn't worrying. (Okay. It was a little worrying, but it wasn't out of the _ordinary_ , Jack supposed.) Finally, Elsa breathed a deep sigh and shifted toward him, curling her legs beneath her. They were knee-to-knee.

Perplexed, Jack Frost angled his head just off to the side and peered down at her more carefully, making sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him; if there was one thing Elsa respected, it was distance.

But there she was, sitting cross-legged in her long skirt, leaning forward over her thighs with her elbows at her knees— _as slouched as he'd ever seen her_ —and there were her bare, gloveless hands, hanging off her lap.

Okay.

Now he was worried.

“ _Watch_ ,” she instructed, just a whisper.

( _And suddenly—  
Elsa began to cry._)

Immediately, Jack shifted forward, reaching out to—

“ _Wait_.”

Jack did not move—did not _breathe—_ as a single, perfect teardrop fell from her right eye— _he watched it, in slow motion, with perfect clarity_ —as it floated down between them—

—and fell into the palm of Elsa's bare hand, a perfectly carved diamond of ice.

Just a single droplet, cut and clear, and sparkling with the light of the Moon.

Jack stared down at it, speechless.

“I remembered it happening once or twice when I was little,” Elsa whispered, and Jack resisted the urge to tell her— _you_ are _little, you_ are, _still—_ and listened, because she swallowed, and whispered, “I was afraid to cry in front of others... just in case.”

Jack swallowed hard.

“Does that happen all the time?” he asked, quiet, as if his voice might disturb the stillness of the room. As if he might give away her secret, and all the many secrets it still held. ( _Apparently even from herself_ , he thought, and ignored the sinking in his gut.)

“No,” Elsa replied quietly, and Jack realized that she still hadn't moved farther away. She was still looking at the crystal in her palm. “That's why it's training.”

Jack tilted his head lower, tried to see her face. “You can do it on command?” he asked, struck with awe.

He hadn't even realized he'd leaned closer until she looked up, and he saw it then, fully, her face.

“I'm trying not to do it all,” she said quietly.

Jack hesitated. “Cry diamonds?” he whispered.

Elsa only smiled, close-lipped and resigned, as genuine as it was simple as it was sad.

She shrugged and answered, simply, “ _Cry_.”

. * * * .


	23. - a favor -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/13/14_. I've been listening to “Sorcery” on the Frozen OST a lot recently and I blame that song for a lot of the angsty drabbles that have been occurring as of late. I need to start listening to happier music and try to bring back a little fluff into this fic. :(
> 
> But here's just another sad one, simply because I can't help myself.

. * * * .  
  
\- _a favor_ -  
  
. * * * .  
  
.

.

.

Elsa was nearly ten-years-old the first time she asked a favor of Jack Frost;  
for something that she truly, desperately wanted.

He didn't exactly say yes.

.

.

.

(Well. It was the second time, technically,  
though Jack wasn't actually sure if the Nightmare really counted.

Neither of them had  
ever mentioned it.)

.

.

.

. * * * .

“How many Guardians are there?” Elsa asked suddenly.

Jack gave her a look, teasing and scolding all the same— _you're kidding, right?_ —but stamped down the strand of concern that was beginning to creep into his consciousness. “You know how many,” he answered teasingly. It was a bright, cold winter morning and—for all Jack's intents and purposes—the world was pretty grand. He'd have liked it to stay that way, for once.

“But is that _all_?” Elsa asked, plowing right over his ribbing, leaning further into the mound of pillows atop her bed. There was a book on her lap, but she hadn't been reading it so much as staring blankly down at the page for the last half hour; it was now shut, forgotten completely. Jack had been sitting at the foot of the bed, playing absently with this staff between his fingers, waiting for her to organize her thoughts.

“All, what?”

“What about the other ones you've mentioned,” he heard her ask, as the icy, twisted wood spun between his fingers. “Like the little men in gold and green, or the animal who is afraid of his own shadow?”

 _Ah_. “Well,” he began, a tad awkwardly. He scratched his nose and briefly wondered how much he could get away with explaining without letting her realize that he actually knew close to nothing. “There are many creatures, but only five Guardians... Well. That I know of, anyway.”

 _Yeah. So much for that_ , he thought with a hiss, berating his lack of willpower.( _Whatever._ Jack had never pretended to be any smarter than he was in his previous life, so he didn't know why he would bother to start now.

And he was pretty smart, for the record. He'd never needed books or stuffy schoolhouse teachers to tell him that.)

“And these five Guardians are responsible for watching over _all_ of the children of the world?”  
  
“Yes, Ma'am,” Jack replied proudly, twirling his staff through the air. (In hers _and_ his, but he wasn't really about to—)

“Then, Jack,” she began softly, as her little brow began to furrow. “Why...”

“Hm?”

“Why... do you spend so much time with me?”

The staff halted in his palm; Jack looked up at her, but her face gave nothing away.

“What do you mean?” he asked, cautiously.

“I mean... simply because it's winter in Arendelle doesn't mean that winter has thawed everywhere else, does it? You are still needed elsewhere. And— _before_ you argue—I knowyou're not here _all_ the time, and I know that you _do_ manage your other duties whenever you go away, wherever it is that you go. And I know that I don't see you as often as I used to—”

“Wait,” Jack leaned forward, momentarily forgetting to maintain his space. His eyes were wide and his breath was short and his voice was maybe just a little too anxious when he demanded, “What did you say?”

“Well—because you're gone,” Elsa answered, perplexed, staring at him with big eyes. “Such as—I'll go to sleep sensing that you're around, but when I awake, it's clear that you're off somewhere else. Helping someone else, I presume.” There was a long pause, in which he swore that Elsa could see the wheels turning in his head. “Right?”she whispered.

_(And I know that I don't see you—)_

“Ah,” Jack nodded, slowly lowering himself back down into his seat, grateful that she didn't mention it. Much easier to pretend that his embarrassing little slip had never happened. “Right.”

He still wasn't prepared for that conversation. Not yet.

“I just... I'm wondering...” Elsa continued, putting her words back together. “I just want to let you know that I don't... _mind_ being alone.”

Jack stared at her.

“Well, I _do—_ but not as much anymore,” she clarified, and wrung her hands together as she spoke. “As long as I know it's not forever.”

“Elsa,” Jack said, very carefully. He felt like he walking a tightrope, and for once, knew that he might fall. “I don't understand what you're saying.”

Elsa spoke clearly, head held high; Jack could only look straight ahead— _at her round, little face and her big, clever eyes_ —watching, without thinking, and listen. “I'm _saying_ that I know you are responsible for many different people and that, for whatever reason, I'm—I'm being given some kind of special treatment. I'm letting you know that I'm not quite like I used to be... that I can handle being alone now.”

Slowly, Jack shifted his position, facing her more fully. He took a moment to adjust himself before speaking, to clasp his hands together in front of him, suspended between his bent knees. He chewed his lip in thought while Elsa waited in silence; it was a role reversal he wasn't comfortable with.

“Are you... asking me to leave?”

“No,” Elsa said quickly, then shifted, placing the book aside. “Well... yes. In a way.”

Jack nodded, strangely numb.

“No, I—I'm _telling_ you that I appreciate the help you give me, and that I've been aware of my... unique standing, for a while now. I won't try to pretend to understand exactly it is that you do, or how the parameters of how your responsibilities work—though I would _like_ to, if you could tell me— _and_ —keeping all of this in mind, with how you already spend so much time here and how I am learning to be on my own, _that I_ —that I would like to ask a favor of you.”

And Jack thought, _Anything—_

 _Anything but this_.

He was almost too afraid to ask.  
  
“What?” he managed, throat dry and cracked.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“That you'll please watch over Anna,” Elsa whispered.  
“The way you watch over me.”

.

.

.

.

.

Jack blinked, confused.  
( _Relieved._ )

.

.

.

.

.

 

“Elsa,” he said softly, and resisted the inexplicable urge to laugh. “I _already_ watch over Anna.”

“You do,” she answered, patiently, and Jack got the horrible feeling that this was not over, that he was still the one being instructed, that the reversed roles hadn't yet been righted. “I know you do, but... a long time ago, you told me that you were just as much Anna's Guardian as you were mine. And it's not the same, Jack.”

He didn't know what to say. It took a few moments, but finally, Jack knew where she was going with this. There were a thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea, why this was bound not to work, why he shouldn't even _consider_ —

“Elsa—she doesn't—she doesn't _believe_ in me.”

 

_(Remember?)_

_  
_

Carefully, Elsa turned around. Out from underneath her pillow, Elsa slipped a leather bound book. A very old, very familiar book.

“You still have that?” Jack whispered, staring at the title in disbelief. _You keep it there? Under your pillow? (_ For how long had he not noticed that?)

“I'm going to leave this for her to find,” Elsa revealed, carefully brushing her gloved fingers over the silvery title. The metallic ink gleamed in the light from the window. “I want her to have something to believe in, too... now that...”

_Now that she no longer fears the thought of losing you._

_(Now that she already has.)_

“I want her to believe in you the way that I do,” Elsa whispered to him, with complete, unfailing trust, and— _that_ , that shouldn't have made him sick, but it did.

“Elsa,” Jack said quickly, gently, swallowing down bile. “ _This is_ —I know that you worry for your sister, and this is—really—an incredible gift, but—”

“Jack,” Elsa whispered. “I'll be fine.”  
  
(Jack didn't know which was worse: The fear that she wouldn't be?  
  
Or the knowledge that she _would_ be—and that he didn't want to believe her?)

“All that I ask is that you pay her visits like you would the other children... and then maybe, if you can, a little more. Anna isn't like me,” Elsa whispered, trailing her fingers along the leather and the letters engraved there. “She needs people.”

“You need somebody, too,” Jack argued.

“Yes,” she admitted, and looked up. “But I already have you.”

There wasn't a whole lot he could say to that.

“I'm strong enough to be on my own,” Elsa started, but Jack cut her off.

“Being _alone_ doesn't mean anything about—”

“I know,” Elsa said quietly, and it was only then that Jack recognized the anger in his voice, the frustration and anxiety and fear and three hundred years worth of isolation. Elsa swallowed and Jack shifted back, surprised at himself. “I know it doesn't. But I can handle it, if I have to, and for the last three years—I've had to,” she looked at him, eyes hard, so much harder than a little girl of ten should have ever had to offer, and Jack felt himself crumbling all over again. “But all this time, Anna has been alone, too.

“She's older now, older than when I first met you,” Elsa added quietly. “She won't be afraid anymore, the way she once was. I think... I think she could really use the company, Jack.”

“Elsa,” he sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I don't know.”

She looked at him sadly. “Am I really asking for so much?”

Elsa never asked anything of him. Truthfully, she was asking for nothing at all. And yet—  
  
She was asking for everything.

( _There were few things more precious and dangerous and despicable to a Guardian than time,_  
 _and Jack already had so little of Elsa's, as it was_.)

“Go ahead and leave the book where she'll find it,” Jack sighed, at long last. “Once she's read my story, I'll... One day, I'll go visit her. See how it goes."

Elsa's face glowed, but she kept her smile in check—cautious and restrained. “You will?” she asked, barely allowing herself to believe it. Jack knew the feeling.

“Yeah,” he sighed, blowing out the air from his cheeks, perhaps a bit petulantly. “Yeah, I will.”

The rest of his breath was knocked from his lungs as a tiny figure tackled him from the side, and a pair of small, skinny arms wrapped around his neck. It was a good thing he technically didn't need to breathe. He was just about to start choking dramatically for air—or maybe return the hug, he was still trying to decide which—when Elsa removed her hold and placed herself back on the opposite end of the bed, unable to contain her smile.

“Thank you, Jack,” she glowed. “Really.”

Jack turned away uncomfortably, swelling uncontrollably with pride and more than a little embarrassment.

And _maybe_ —maybe a little guilt, too.

.

.

.

.

.He'd said he would, and he _intended_ to.

.

.

.  
  
But he'd never promised when.

.

.

.

.

 

 . * * * .

It was a lot harder to break promises, Jack learned,  
if he never made them in the first place.

. * * * .


	24. - kiss of -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/14/14_. Happy Valentine's Day! :)

. * * * .  
  
 _(a)_  
 _\- kiss of -_  
                        _(frost)_  
  
. * * * .

But of course, it wasn't long until Jack Frost did  
what he normally did where Elsa was concerned: he caved.  
  
. * * * .

He knew what Elsa was hoping to have him do.

For Anna.

She wanted him to visit her and talk to her and play with her and keep her company, just like he used to do when Elsa was only seven-and-a-half years old. She wanted him to help answer her questions and make her laugh and remind her that it was okay to have fun, even if she was feeling sad. She wanted him to be a part of her life, even if not very often or never for very long. She wanted her little sister to believe in him. It was a very kind act, not that Jack would have ever expected anything less from Elsa.  
  
That didn't make the idea any better, though.

Anna was a quick study, and for all of the princess' inherent differences, Jack knew it wouldn't take long before Anna got a similar idea. (“ _Jack, I was wondering—is there any way that you could maybe, I don't know—look after her a little? My sister—Elsa? It must get so lonely in there, shut in her room all the time, and I think if someone were to just—”)_

Nope. Bad idea. No, thank you.  
  
Providing surveillance on one sister for the _other_ sister was already hard enough; he wasn't about to go all vice-versa and risk potentially ruining all of the hidden secrecy that the royal family had worked so hard to preserve. And what if he accidentally said something stupid, or screwed around with Anna's memories further, and jogged something? What if he triggered the memory of the Accident? The last thing he wanted to do was go around messing stuff up. Especially really complex, confusing, mystical, magical troll stuff.

Yeah. No thanks.

This wasn't the only reason Jack gave himself for why he _shouldn't_ honor Elsa's request, though it was definitely the most reasonably sound.

(And Jack didn't often admit to himself the other reasons— _the selfish ones_ —but the funny thing about being Jack Frost was that he'd never actually been very good at kidding himself.)

Which was why Jack reluctantly found himself waiting outside of Anna's window five weeks later, just two weeks after Elsa's tenth birthday. They hadn't done much to celebrate this year, as Elsa had come down with an _unfortunate cold,_ and honestly, how the world had yet to discover the truth about Elsa's powers with the King and Queen's slip-shot crisis management skills was _beyond_ him. The King and Queen both had hearts of gold and were both terrible liars. (These two qualities were not always related to one another, in Jack's experience, but the combination did make for a rather conflicting state of conscience for a pair of well-respected rulers who were touted for their peace and prosperity while, you know, secretly caging their eldest daughter away from society in a prison of her own fear.

But Jack wasn't the expert on these things, so.)

Regardless, Elsa had made certain that morning that _Guardians of Ice: Jack Frost & Other Myths _would be carefully placed atop a new stack of fresh books in Anna's chambers while she was downstairs, courtesy of his, truly. Drooping with disappointment from yet another missed opportunity to see her sister, Anna trudged back to her wide-open room after the quiet birthday brunch and threw herself miserably to the bed, only to topple the books onto the floor. (Jack had watched, wincing, from the banister above.) It took a great deal of waiting until Anna finally roused herself from a nap, and just when he thought she had finally spotted the leather-bound cover laying open and haphazard on the wooden floor, her attention was immediately caught by a mouse scurrying toward the corner and _that_ , Jack decided, was when he had reached his limits.

Just as Anna was about to reach a curious hand through the hole in the wall, Jack sent a kiss of frost across the room, ruffling the pages gently in the cold winter's breeze. The soft sounds and the flurry of sparkling snow caught Anna's eye and she looked over her shoulder, curiously, to where the books laid discarded on the floor. Jack Frost sent another wisp of air, his breath curling white as it spiraled toward the books, and a single page flickered, then stilled, laying quiet in wait.

Intrigued and encouraged by the display, Anna slowly rose from the floor by the mouse's home and carefully crawled her way to where his book rested, facedown and open on the floor, just a little apart from the others. He watched with bated breath as she curled over and peered down at the silver, metallic letters on the cover, as her little mouth formed the words one at a time, sounding out the letters as she went.

Jack had allowed himself a smile when she plopped down the floor and pulled the book into her lap; her fingers trailed carefully over the title, just as her sister's had, and when Anna opened to the first page of the introduction and began to read aloud, Jack took that as his cue to leave... but not before leaving a painting of icy lace over the panes of her window, and offered up a touch of a cool breeze, just enough to flip to the start of Jack's favorite chapter: his.

That had been two weeks ago, and already things were changing; for just over three years, a trip to Arendelle was never made without a visit to Elsa, and for the past two or so, an occasional visit to Kristoff... and now, no visit to Arendelle was ever complete until Jack Frost had also swung by Anna's window, where he always left a border of filigree frost over the glass. Sometimes, even with pretty little shapes hidden inside them.  
  
Today was no exception.

And when Anna bounded into the room some minutes later, eyes alight at the gift he'd left for her—his book tucked tightly against her side, eyes wide with _wonder_ and magic, the true beginnings of belief—it was then that something shifted and pinched in his chest, silently. A quiet, invisible change.

" _Jack Frost_ ," he heard her whisper, out of sight, and he let himself take one careful peek, making sure to stay hidden. It was worth it.

Because Jack had almost forgotten what it was like, to watch someone smile like that.

So easily.

. * * * .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** has created [a lovely little doodle for this chapter](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84638027287/this-one-was-from-yesterday-more-jelsa-from-at)!


	25. - holding back -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/14/14_. Double Bonus for Valentine's Day!

. * * * .  
  
\- _holding back_ -  
  
. * * * .

“What was that?” Jack asked, eyes twinkling mischievously.  
  
Elsa's eyes widened, not _quite_ with fear. Something much, much closer to panic.

“What was what?” she asked, and _oh_ , she was ever the diplomat, but they really needed to work on her lying.

“You were singing,” he breathed, unable to hold back his grin; Jack was teasing her about something he was usually very good at pretending not to notice, but he couldn't help himself. Really, he could only keep up the charade of ignorance for so long.

“No, I wasn't,” she said quickly, and Jack just smiled, crossing his arms.

“You were,” he countered quietly, as his grin widened, and Elsa flushed with embarrassment. (She hadn't even noticed it, until he'd brought it up. She'd gotten so used to his presence that she simply hadn't thought to hold back any longer; maybe that was why he decided not to, either.) “You have a nice voice,” he told her, honestly.

Five minutes later, she was still flushing, pointedly reading her book by the window, having retreated back into silence.  
  
But every few minutes or so, he could catch her beaming, too.

. * * * .


	26. - watching over -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/15/14_. It's vacation! :) My goal is to post at least two chapters every day this week, in an effort to wrap up this story a little quicker. Still hoping to have it finished by the end of March!

. * * * .  
  
 _\- watching over -_  
  
. * * * .  


The only thing worse than having a fever in the brittle winter months, Jack decided, was having a fever in the searing summer heat.

It was a mere few days before Anna's eighth birthday, and here she was, miserable and melting beneath a mountain of sweltering blankets, while frantic servants rushed about the room, bringing in and out an endless stream of fresh, clean blankets in an attempt to keep up with the endless cycle of hot and cold. Her governess— _the lenient one, the one who used to let Elsa have extra servings of gooseberry tarts_ —was hunched over little Anna's forehead, constantly refreshing the cool, damp cloth placed over her flushed skin. An endless parade of nameless servants scurried about behind her, closing the drapes and reopening them, piling more blankets on top of her little frame then removing them altogether, and a stout doctor stood at the foot of her bed offering an on-going stream of polite, pointed instructions, and Jack Frost watched from the windowsill, trying to keep his chill to himself.

And just when Jack thought this season couldn't get any worse.

When the doors opened, the last person Jack expected to see was the Queen.

The room quieted as she stepped forward, hands clasped delicately at her waist. The servants all respectfully bowed their heads as she strode past, silently offering a nod of thanks to each in turn; her eyes, however, always came back to rest on the tiny figure resting on the bed, small and weak and frail in the height of summer's heat. Carefully, Jack shifted a fraction closer, twisting himself to get a better look.

“Thank you,” said the Queen, who addressed the doctor directly. “For your exceptional care... If your professional expertise would allow it, Doctor, I would be grateful for a moment to wait on my daughter, myself.”

There was barely a moment before the doctor lowered his head in reverent understanding, and the room was suddenly, slowly in motion as soon as he said, “Of course, Your Grace. We will replenish our supplies and await your summons in the grand hall."

Jack hardly registered that they were leaving until they were gone. He was too busy watching the Queen, who stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her youngest daughter with a look he didn't, couldn't, understand.

Her hands remained clasped in front of her as she came round to the side of the bed, and even still when she sat down upon the covers. It seemed as if the most recent of Anna's shivering spells was at an end, for her skin grew warm once more with the flush of fever; Jack could see it, even from the window. Slowly, gently, the Queen reached to the stand beside the bed and reached her hands, glittered with jeweled rings, into the pot of water. The servants hadn't known that it was the ice mined from the North Mountain that kept it cool, or that it was young Kristoff's steady, sturdy sled that had procured it, but Jack knew, and Jack watched in awe as the Queen slipped a small hand from its depths with a cloth, as her diamonds reflected the light of the sun. She twisted the cloth in her grasp, wringing out the cold water withcare, and Jack watched on from the window, inexplicably unwilling to look away.

The Queen hummed as she worked, gentle at first—then growing louder and clearer, until soft words joined the melody in a sweet lullaby. A quiet one, meant only for Anna's ears, and _this_ , this was when Jack knew it was the appropriate time to leave.

But instead he floated across the room, careful not to make a sound, and gently sat himself upon the bed at Anna's other side. Legs crossed, staff in his lap, elbows at the knees. His eyes on her mother's hands.

Anna's brow scrunched and relaxed, over and over, as discomfort gave way to pain to relief to dreaming. There would be no golden dust above her head now, while her state was so fragile, but Jack hoped beyond reason that her fever dream was a good one, something that offered comfort.

Or a distraction...  
  
“Oh, Anna,” the Queen whispered, and Jack's eyes flicked upwards. He watched as the Queen smoothed the crinkle in Anna's brow, as one appeared between her own. The way her throat moved, when she swallowed down her emotion—gently, the same way she did everything else; feeling strangely short of breath, Jack lowered his eyes to Anna's face. He listened to Anna's labored breathing, growing more strenuous beneath the rising heat of her blankets. Her mother adjusted the sheets then, to allow her some relief while the cloth rested upon her brow, and a small, pitiful laugh escaped her. She swept a loving hand along her daughter's jaw.

“Never knowing the reason for your loneliness,” she whispered, so low that Jack could barely hear. “Never knowing the hardness behind your father's eyes... or the sadness in your mother's heart.” Carefully, gingerly, she brushed a strand of Anna's hair from her brow. “One day, little Anna... you shall know the truth.”

Her words settled heavily on his shoulders, tickling the back of his neck like a weighted breeze, and his breath hitched— _and hers, together_ —when Anna's tiny whimper cut through the room, pained and scared and too, too hot.

By the time the Queen's hands had replenished the cloth of icy water, Jack's hands were already there, at Anna's cheek, soothing her fevered skin with what little assistance he could offer.

The Queen hesitated, observing the sudden change, then blinked away her uncertainty and laid the cloth over Anna's forehead with steady fingers. Jack's fingers still rested upon Anna's cheek when the Queen took Anna's little hands into her own, protected between her careful grasp.

The Queen stayed with Anna for as long as the Doctor could allow, and Jack stayed with her, watching over Anna.

Though his eyes rarely left the Queen.

. * * * .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explanation for this chapter can be found [here](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/76800750579/a-bit-of-explanation) on my tumblr!
> 
> (It's essentially just a bunch of me ranting, but anyway.)


	27. - of interest -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/16/14_. It's technically past midnight, but I'm going to count this as yesterday's second chapter... Then two more for today's waking hours, I hope!
> 
> Happy Vacation Week to me. :)

. * * * .  
  
 _\- of interest -_  
  
. * * * .

  
  
“ _Ahh_ —wonderful! You're back!” Toothiana's voice drifted past his ears, and Jack spun around with a grin. She was floating towards him with a rather peculiar smile. “ _Good._ I've got something that might interest you.”

“Oh?” Jack smirked as he landed, leaning his staff against his shoulder. He stuffed his hands in his pocket as he strolled along the golden palace floor, and tried not to add a bit of swagger when he heard the inevitable swooning from the hordes of fairies above; to his credit, Jack managed not to.  
  
Mostly.

After shushing her fairies and bidding them back to work, Tooth rushed forward, looking especially excitable and eyeing him in a way that honestly made him feel a little uncomfortable. “You're not feeling squeamish, are you?” she asked and _oh, man—here we go_.

Jack's face contorted, bemused. “No more than any other day,” he replied, and hoped it was the right answer.

Before Jack had a chance to question it, Toothiana held up three fingers, stiff and straight; lodged within each of the two spaces was a single tooth. He was a little shocked—and a little worried—that he could actually tell, from this distance, that one was an incisor and the other was some kind of molar.  
  
 _Great_.

“Fresh new shipment from Arendelle,” Tooth brightly announced, wagging her fingers, and Jack was at her side in an instant.

“Elsa's?” Jack asked eagerly, peering so close that his nose nearly touched the— _ew_ , _okay_ , she wasn't kidding about the squeamishness because that was definitely dried blood within the cracks.

“Not these,” she replied teasingly, but before Jack could look up and demand anything further, Tooth pinched the molar between her forefinger and thumb, and held it out so Jack could take a closer look. “I have good news and bad news. This belongs to your little ice miner, Kristoff.”

“Uh... Is that the good news? Did he jam it on an ice pick or something?”

“The _good_ news,” Tooth went on, ignoring him, “Is that Kristoff is very happy. He's a very resilient child, and he's adjusted to a rather harsh lifestyle with impressive speed and determination. He and Sven are doing quite well for themselves, and they are treated very kindly by the Trolls, who have taken them both into their clan as kin of their own. His livelihood is secure.”

“So... what's the bad news?”

Toothiana smile slowly disappeared. Turning the tooth over in her palm, she sighed and said, “The bad news is that his memories _have_ been altered.”

Jack stepped forward, looking closely at the tooth. As if he might somehow unlock all of its secrets. “How so?"

Toothiana hesitated, and Jack found himself feeling even less patient than usual. “The night of Elsa's accident was the same night that Kristoff was... _adopted_ by the Trolls.”

Jack's jaw tightened, but he gave a shrug, brushing off his unease. “Yeah, so? I think you mentioned that, already.”

“What I didn't know—until later—was that Kristoff actually witnessed the Trolls' magic,” Toothiana whispered, and Jack waited, not understanding. “He crossed paths with Elsa and her family as they rushed off into the forest to find a cure for the ice in Anna's mind, and he was there when the Clan Leader extracted it from her body.”

Jack's eyes widened with realization. “He saw that?” he whispered, as a thousand and one ideas occurred to him, all at once. “Then we could—his memories, I mean—can I _see_ —?”  
  
“That's the bad news,” Toothiana said quietly. “All primary teeth are limitless in their storage space, so to speak, but molars are the powerhouses of memories. For almost two years, Kristoff seemed very much aware of the fact that he'd witnessed the youngest Princess of Arendelle undergo a troll's extraction spell in the mountains, though his age and circumstances never once allowed him to consider it any matter of significance, especially since he rarely spends time in Arendelle, save for trade. It's just... he's lost five teeth in the last year-and-a-half alone, all of which clearly showed recognition of Anna... and then suddenly, this one does not.”

Jack squinted at the tooth, trying to make sense of what she was telling him. “You think the trolls purposefully erased Anna from his memory?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she admitted, staring hard at the tooth in her hand; he was certain that she was seeing something very, very different than just the enamel that he saw. “I can't imagine why.”

“What if the memory's not gone altogether, but is just—I don't know, hidden?” Jack suggested. “Like—it's just so far gone from his current thoughts that it's no longer at the forefront? That it's just buried really deep down?”

“That's the part that worries me,” she said. “That's exactly the kind of natural process on which the trolls _build_ their magic.”  
  
“So... is the problem that the trolls _use_ this magic at all, or just that they used it on Kristoff?”  
  
Toothiana pressed her lips together, until they were nearly invisible. “I'm not sure,” she said at last.  
  
“So—wait a minute. I don't get it. What's the big deal with this troll magic, anyway? Like—Anna is going to eventually remember Elsa's magic on her own, anyway, right? Like—this is only temporary?”  
  
Jack did not like the sound of her silence.  
  
“Right?” he pressed.  
  
“Jack,” Toothiana began and _no_ , no, he did appreciate her tone. “I'm afraid... I'm afraid Troll magic is a bit more complicated than that.”  
  
“ _How_ complicated?”  
  
“You see, this is... it's very—it's very similar to the process when a mind goes... when a child... well.”

“What?” Jack asked. “Starts repressing memories? When a child, what? Shuts down their emotions?”

“When they stop believing,” she answered, holding his gaze. “In us.”

Jack stared at her. Neither of them seemed to be able to move.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“It's... _Oh_ , it's complicated,” Toothiana sighed, pressing the inside of one wrist to her brow. Jack suddenly felt a little woozy, himself, but wouldn't dare let it show; ever so subtly, Jack adjusted his staff on the golden floor, resting his weight against it while Toothiana's explanation trailed on. “You see, normally— _naturally_ —all childhood memories are stored away in a safe place, easily organized in their minds—and my palace—for safe-keeping. The trouble is when memories—favored, or otherwise—get so buried that they become lost, or burdened down by heavier, more troubling memories. Especially when magic is involved. The memory of us, _because_ of the magic involved, falls somewhere between the two... a little cloudy, a little hazy, between the deepest levels of the abyss and the very surface—”  
  
 _Ugh._ He couldn't do this.  
  
His head was spinning.

“Tooth,” he whispered. His forehead leaned heavily against the support of his staff; he couldn't keep up the ruse any longer than he could keep up his head.  
  
“—so just as Kristoff remembers the incident clearly in that it _happened_... it's just... the details of it all are hazy to him now. The faces, the names—the details. It _is_ very similar to when a child stops believing in the Guardians,” Toothiana continued, and Jack wondered, vaguely, when the time would come that he would be able to speak of this with such ease, to be able to talk about their children no longer remembering them without doubling over with illness, like his entire existence was unraveling, speck by speck. ( _On the one hand, it couldn't come fast enough._ ) And on the other—

He hoped it never, never would.  
  
“Tooth,” he rasped, feeling light-headed.  
  
“The _feelings,_ however, are still there. He remembers being out in the woods that night, alone with Sven, and scared—a sense of urgency and confusion and uncertainty, and then it just—”

“ _Tooth_.”  
  
Her head snapped toward his. “Yes?”  
  
His eyes were shut tight. “What does it mean?”

He heard her hesitation; she must have noticed him standing there, then, leaning against his staff and covering his eyes with his hand. “Jack?”  
  
“What does it mean?” he repeated, gently, an unspoken request to leave him be. After a moment, she followed it.

“It _could_ just be natural,” she said, more softly and much more slowly. “He has so many memories that are obviously untouched—and there's no reason that I can think of, why the trolls would care to change such a memory—” Toothiana cut herself off, realizing that she was talking in circles again. “Jack?” she asked, gently. “What do you think?”

His shrug felt heavy, but his head was already starting to clear. He let out a shaky breath and cleared away a little more, rising up to his full height... even if he did not feel very tall. The hand over his eyes fell to the bridge of his nose, and pinched.

“Maybe... maybe out of respect for the royal family,” Jack suggested, and then clung to the idea. His eyes opened slowly, as some of the overwhelming deluge of uselessness fell away. “Or,” Jack added darkly, “Maybe the King discovered Kristoff as a witness, and then paid off the trolls to save him the trouble.”

It took Jack a moment to realize that Toothiana was looking at him strangely. “What?” he snapped.

“You still haven't really warmed up to the King... have you?”

Jack let out a smirk, abnormally sharp, and maybe just a little too tight. “Warming up isn't really what I'm known for.”

Toothiana rolled her eyes, but thankfully let the subject drop. “Ultimately, I don't know what the story is,” she sighed. “But it's curious, is all, and I'd like to keep an eye on it. If you happen to be in Arendelle, I'd appreciate it if you could try to scope out anything unusual, too."

“Oh, yeah,” he replied glibly. “Arendelle. Nice place, I hear—I think I might have a few visits penciled into my vacation planner.”

He'd expected to see another eye roll; instead, Jack Frost saw what was probably the most devious, insidioussmirk on the Tooth Fairy's face that he had ever seen.

He was suddenly terrified.

“On that note...” she began slowly, striding towards him, holding up the incisor. “Guess who _this_ tooth belongs to.”

Jack found himself swallowing. Hard. “Uh... Elsa?” he tried, uneasily.

“Not this one,” Tooth replied, apparently too delighted with her new secret to be displeased with his short-term memory. “This one... belongs to _Anna_.”  
  
“Oh,” Jack said, brows furrowing. “Um. Okay?”  
  
Toothiana's smirk grew. “Jack, I should take this moment to tell you that I don't normally make it a habit of peeking into children's memories,” she began, with a strangely lofty tone that Jack didn't recognize. “I closely monitor the ones that I feel might have undergone some kind of supernatural interference, such as our young Kristoff's, but I otherwise hold true to my oath of respecting my wards' private memories. Just so you understand,” she declared, striding ever closer.  
  
Jack instinctively found himself backing away. “Um. All right,” he said, starting to get well and truly freaked out, and _what the hell is going—?_  
  
“Which is why I am so very delighted to share a piece of news with you,” she grinned, while Jack tried his hardest not to get backed up against a wall. “I think there is a memory or two in this tooth that would be of interest to you.”

“Ah.” Jack watched her warily, flicking his gaze between her purple eyes and Anna's tooth, and suddenly felt the distinct press of a golden pillar at his back. “Yeah...?”  
  
Toothiana looked like she might burst with anticipation but—finally taking pity on his undercurrent stress—softened her smirk and shifted her stance to allow Jack some more breathing room, though the devious glint in her eyes didn't help much on that front.

“You've been sighted, Jack,”she teased, through just a whisper. “Two days after Anna's eighth birthday, you were so busy at work with your window decorations that you didn't notice the door opening until it was too late... You didn't get away from the window quick enough—and you _knew_ it _._ Anna spotted you. _”_ Her smile widened knowingly. “My, what a mad scramble, that was...”

Jack felt himself begin to grow rigid under Tooth's gaze, even as she pulled away. “I wouldn't— _exactly_ —scramble isn't _really_ —”  
  
“I swear, I've never seen you fly off so quickly. Really, though—was the parting wink necessary? Thanks to all of your charming, clumsy antics, it seems the youngest Princess of Arendelle has grown rather smitten with a certain winter sprite.”

“ _Sp—sprite?_ ” Jack nearly sputtered. “Who are you calling a _sprite?_ ”  
  
It took a few seconds for the rest of her statement to catch up with him.  
  
“Oh,” Jack said lowly, as his stomach flipped. “ _Oh_ , crap.” It took a few seconds further, for— “This isn't funny, Tooth!”

She could barely answer, so desperately was she clutching her middle, caught in a ferocious wave of giggles. “Oh, Jack— _where_ is your sense of humor all of a sudden?”  
  
“Probably still trapped somewhere in that damn tooth,” he muttered, which only made Toothiana laugh harder.  
  
“Honestly, Jack—we so rarely get to tease you! Please just let us enjoy this one opportunity!”  
  
“I'm sorry, did you say _rarely_? And what do you mean _we_? You—you haven't told the others, have you? _Holy_ —Tooth. Tooth. _Tell me_. You didn't tell Bunny.” Her answer was another resounding fit of giggles. “Oh, _for the love of_ —”  
  
“You had quite the effect on her,” Tooth added, once she could breathe. “I, personally, think the wink did the trick.”  
  
“Tooth—this isn't funny. It's _not_. You are enjoying this _way_ too much.”  
  
“Jack! You are the Guardian of _Fun_!”  
  
“And I resign, immediately.”

“Oh, Jack...” Toothiana laughed on and on, and then—after a few long, painful moments—generously quieted her giggles. “You've never been so bothered by a child's little crush before! Oh, look at you, so grouchy all of a sudden. Jack, I promise _,_ it'll pass soon enough—don't you worry.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jack muttered, feeling flustered and embarrassed, not really knowing what else to say.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Because, honestly,  
he was a little worried.

.

.

.

. * * * .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[rcfontana](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com)** has created [a lovely little doodle for this chapter](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com/post/78037377429/this-is-a-little-fanart-i-made-yesterday-based-on)!


	28. - won't be -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/16/14_. I was listening to ["Beside You" by Marianas Trench](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojP7QzIw3Uc) a lot while writing out the bits and pieces of this chapter. :(

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- won't be -_  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

. * * * .

 _.  July  ._  
  
. * * * .

Jack Frost decided that no one could blame him, then, for the lengths he went to avoid Anna over the next few months. (Least of all Elsa—had he ever actually told her.) He still paid Anna plenty of visits and left pretty little shapes in the early morning frost on her windowsill... but always when he was certain that she was asleep, or busy with lessons in the parlor, or singing to the paintings on the gallery wall.

Or curled up somewhere about the halls, reading his book.

.

.

.

.

 

. * * * .

. _September_ .  
  
. * * * .

He could feel the power inside of Elsa growing.

He knew Elsa could feel it too, although she had yet to attain the experience necessary to fully recognize its potential. It was in her very presence, from the blue of her veins to the white of her hair, and Jack thought the world cruel, for housing this much magic in such a frightened little girl, and the King a fool, for thinking that he would ever be able to contain this much power in a single cell.

The chambermaids no longer tended to her room twice a day. Instead, the Queen insisted that two of her own most trusted servants—her own personal handmaidens, who had proudly served her for a wealth of twenty years—visited the Princess' room once a week for a thorough dusting and a proper laundering of the sheets; the rest of its care was up to Elsa, by her own request. The trips to the library became fewer. The size of her woven shoes grew a bit bigger and the hems of her dresses grew longer. Her braid grew thicker beneath the black band she wore to hold it back, and two whole drawers were filled with beautiful, elegant gloves, though she only ever wore a few simple pairs.

For the past three years, Elsa had only taken meals in the dining hall on special occasions, and even then, only when Elsa felt well enough to attend. All other meals were taken privately in her quarters, sometimes with her mother and father as guests. And Jack, of course, when he could.

(And he tried. He tried so very, very hard.)

Because it had been a long time since the royal family had seen any occasion fit to celebrate.

.

.

.

.

  
. * * * .

 _. November ._  
  
. * * * .  
  


Jack received official word from Toothiana that fifteen of Elsa's baby teeth  
had already been lost, and that the sixteenth was already loose.

( _“It won't be long,_ ” she'd told him.)

And time had already begun to extend its claws, to reach around his lungs with a deceptive caress;  
gently, in its talons, it held them, ever constricting— _just a little more_ —with each passing year, or week, or hour.

.  
  
.

.

.  
  
  
. * * * .

 _. December ._  
  
. * * * .

“You know what I was thinking about the other day, while I was watching Mother and Father help Anna with the decorations for the Winter Solstice? How _is_ it that St. Nicolas North has an entire fortress filled with helpers, and your Tooth Fairy has an entire kingdom in the sky filled with fairies—”  
  
“ _My_ Tooth Fairy?”

“—and Bunnymund, even, has all of his strange, magical creatures in his warren, and the Sand Man has all of his dream creations—but you don't have anybody to help you?”  
  
Jack blinked.  
  
It'd never occurred to him.

“Huh. I, uh... I don't know. I've never really thought about it. And I never really wanted anything like that, I guess. I was on my own for a while, so I was used to not having to work alongside anybody or anything, and... well, even before I became a Guardian, I decided that I wasn't ever going to get so caught up that I wouldn't be able to spend time doing what I loved best. North and Tooth... they got so big and so busy running everything that eventually they didn't even really have time to do... well.. To do what originally made them Guardians, anymore. Their companions did all that for them.”  
  
Elsa considered this.  
  
“If you could still keep it—your time to play and to protect people— _and_ work with companions of your own choosing... would you?”  
  
“Well—yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't really see it happening, but sure, for the sake of argument—why not? Though on the other hand, I am a bit different than the others. Like, I don't control _all_ weather, you know? Just winter stuff, and even then, I only really just help Mother Nature along.”

Elsa's eyes widened.  
  
“She's _real_?”  
  
Jack actually laughed, outright. “Of course. Who'd you think was in charge? North? _Manny?_ ”  
  
And then Jack laughed some more.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
. _January_ .  
  
. * * * .  
  
And, just like that, Elsa was eleven.

. * * * .


	29. - frozen-- -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/16/14_. Here's the second one of the day! :)

  
. * * * .

\- _frozen_ —

. * * * .  
  


“Fractals,” Elsa blinked at him, curious and stunned. “Why? What did you think I said?" 

Jack coughed. “Nothing,” he muttered, then, “What kind of word is that?”

“It's a mathematical term,” Elsa explained, holding up the cover of her book so Jack could see. _Ah_. Geometry. Great.

His favorite.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, trying to sound interested, but truthfully, it'd already gone in one ear and right out the other.

“It's actually something I think you'd find really fascinating,” Elsa claimed. He must not have hid his eye roll very well, because Elsa stared him down and thrust the book out towards him, sternly and silently beckoning him over. “Look at the diagrams,” she ordered.

 _Ugh_.

“Yes, _Madame Elsa_ ,” Jack sighed, and he trudged through the air while she scowled. He plopped down to the window seat beside her and his eyes fell to the page. “What am I looking at?”

“Us,” Elsa whispered.

There was a long, uncertain pause, then Jack squinted down at the page. Hard.

“Uhh,” he glanced at her. (Nope. No sign of any head injuries. Complexion was pale, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. Eyes were focused, and annoyed, and _oops_ —) “Sorry, what?” 

“Look closer,” Elsa instructed, as impatient as she was ever gonna get, and twisted the book so that they were both staring down at the page, side-by-side. “Look at the patterns.”

He didn't really know where she was going with this, but she was looking at him like she expected him to have a breakthrough at any moment... like he was about to discover something amazing, and— _oh, for the love of—_ he didn't know how that was supposed to happen, but she made him want to try. Except.

Except he still didn't know what he was supposed to be seeing, or what he was supposed to be looking for.

“Elsa,” he held in a sigh. “I don't—”

“ _Here_ ,” Elsa interrupted, quickly flipping the page. Gone were the pictures of endless spirals and hexagons, and now there was an entire page worth of drawings, all dedicated to a singular geometric example.

Ice crystals.

Jack squinted his eyes down at the endless sprawl of familiar shapes on the page, looking closer. The quick flash of his eyes from the picture to the text on the adjacent page told him nothing, so his eyes trailed back to the artists' careful rendition of frost, examining it closely.

“They talk about snowflakes in your geometry book?” Jack asked, curious in spite of himself. (He ignored her smile; let her keep the small victories, he figured. He was feeling generous.)

“I haven't really figured out if there are natural snowflakes that can be true fractals,” Elsa described, staring intently at the book in their hands. “Since fractals are _infinitely_ complex patterns, and we only have a very limited understanding of nature as it is, _but—_ it looks like the principles might be there, at least. Interesting, isn't it?” she asked suddenly, and when Jack looked to her in surprise, he found that she'd caught him staring at the picture, engrossed.

_Frostbite._

Jack said nothing, but smirked knowingly in response, a little sheepish and accusing and maybe even a little impressed, with his eyes narrowing just enough to show her— _I see what you did there_.

“And there's more, actually,” Elsa continued, charitably choosing not to call Jack out any further on his apparent weakness for frosty mathematics. (He wasn't the _only_ one feeling generous, apparently.) She pointed to a line of text to read aloud as Jack held the other half in his hand and continued to stare down at the patterns, all while Elsa chatted in his ear. “They are self-similar across different scales—which means that their shapes hold their same pattern no matter how closely you look at them, I think, _endlessly_ —which is also what it means when the book says, 'the same from near as from far'.”

After a long moment, Jack realized that Elsa was no longer speaking.

Tearing his eyes away from the drawing, Jack looked to Elsa beside him; her eyes were still on the book in front of her, but the ink on the page seemed to be the furthest thing from her mind.

“What is it?” he asked.

Elsa glanced to him briefly, then turned her sights back on the frozen fractals dancing along the page.

“It's a pretty incredible concept, don't you think?” she asked quietly. “To hold that kind of perfection? It's so... consistent, and thorough. True to itself, to its own unique, special pattern, no matter how closely it's viewed. Forever.”

Warning bells started ringing in the back of Jack's mind, like a distant, indistinct hum... but Jack had never been very musically inclined, and without any further guidance, Jack wasn't left with much confidence in what to say.

“Patterns are so predictable, though,” he argued, abruptly, without entirely knowing why he was arguing, aside from the undeniable instinct that he needed to. “I mean, yeah—they're great in a textbook, and in drawings, but that's not real life. I mean—I'm not like, a geometry expert or anything, but I'm pretty sure a whole bunch of its really complicated stuff is mostly theoretical, anyway.” She said nothing, and Jack swallowed. “You know?”

At least, Elsa nodded. “I guess so,” she said quietly.

Grasping at theoretical straws, Jack ducked his head down to meet hers and blurted, “Hey—didn't you just say that true fractals might be rare in nature, anyway?” (Honestly, Jack was still pretty confused; her explanation had to do with scales or something, but Jack didn't know about any of that.) “Or maybe even impossible?” he ventured, still clutching the book tight in his fingers. “Because they have to be absolutely perfect no matter how closely you look, and there's no real way of proving if that's even possible, for sure?”

Elsa thought for a moment, quiet and hard. “I think so,” she answered finally.

It took Jack a moment to realize that he wasn't actually breathing, so he cleared his throat and swallowed and said, “Okay.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, just looking at the book between them, Elsa quiet and Jack uneasy.

Just when Jack thought the conversation was finally going to drift elsewhere, Elsa thoughtfully tilted her head to the side and said, “But, you know... maybe that's not such a bad thing, that they might not exist in nature... That the real thing doesn't have to be a perfect pattern, like the ones in the books, because it's already beautiful. Because nature made it that way. Like—they're only _mostly_ perfect, and so are essentially perfect, anyway, because they have imperfections.” She paused, and Jack let her sift through her thoughts, gave her time to let them settle. “That makes sense too, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, and felt the ice lodged in his throat begin to melt away with each breath. He couldn't really explain why. “Yeah. I like that better.”

. * * * .


	30. - face of -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/17/14_. I have no idea how many days in a row this is now, but here's to another consecutive daily update! I'm going to be finishing up my resume adjustments and final touches on my grad school applications this afternoon, so the next update may not come for another couple of hours. 
> 
> Thanks again for all of these awesome comments and kudos! :) And again, here is my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com), in case anyone is interested. On any given day you'll probably find it full of various things relating to Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, SNK (even though I don't actually read the manga or watch the show, because I'm lame), and--not to mention--a veritable slew of Jelsa fanart, gifs, metas, and really painful photosets. :(
> 
> But I digress. 
> 
> Also, [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UB96k1arlTk) is quickly becoming my immediate, go-to Jelsa inspiration. :( As well as a few other Imagine Dragons songs, which I will probably post later.

. * * * .  
  
 _\- face of -_  
  
. * * * .

When, exactly, was childhood supposed to end?  
  
When a small human was given the responsibilities of a young adult? When a son or daughter moved out of their parents' house, got married, and had a family of their own? When they finally saw the truth of the world's cruelty, or the first time their parents were revealed in all of their disappointments, with all of their imperfections? A human's first kiss? What was the signal?

Where was the line?

Milk teeth, baby teeth, deciduous teeth; hanging around Toothiana for as long as he had meant that Jack knew at least five different ways to name them, knew that a healthy four-year-old had twenty of them, and that the teeth usually fell out in the order that they grew in. What he didn't always know— _despite his own experience_ —was the kind of stories they could tell, different from one child to the next, or the power they could bring to those in need. How soon was _too_ soon, for a child to need the gift of Memories to carry them through the day?  
  
(Elsa's sixteenth baby tooth had fallen out two days prior, while he was in Pennsylvania working on a freak snow day. It was the first time in a long time that Jack had taken any real enjoyment in his work again, and— _just for a moment, for the first time in half a decade_ —Arendelle hadn't been on his mind.  
  
He'd arrived just after dinner to find her eagerly reading a book he'd left her about Toothiana, whose beautiful feathers had always offered her a strange, adoring fasciation. The people of Arendelle had their own customs to live by for such milestones, but Elsa desperately wanted to try honoring Toothiana according to his storybook, the one that had children place their teeth beneath the pillow.  
  
Toothiana, herself, arrived later that night while Elsa was asleep, for once in her bed; she carefully replaced the tooth with the gift of a silver coin, and said nothing as she stared at Jack curled up by the window, staring blankly into the ocean's waves.)  
  
The people of Arendelle had never heard of Easter, but they knew the power of spring and new life, of fresh, green crops and Hope. Her kingdom loved a happy celebration, and so did she, though Elsa had never been allowed to roam the streets during the festivals, or to fly streamers behind her as she ran about the docks. (Anna never wandered either, though her mother always asked, every year; her answer was always the same, vague, _“No, thank you, Momma,”_ and Jack knew why she deprived herself of the entertainment, knew who she was waiting for, to join her.) Elsa was always so confused by the springtime customs of other countries, especially those according to Jack's (biased) tales, which asked children to seek out brightly-decorated, rotting eggs about their homes. (Eventually, Jack explained the story in a more flattering fashion, and it was not long until perceptive Elsa surmised just what it was about the dynamic between Bunnymund and Jack that made it so difficult for him to tell the story of Easter without rolling his eyes.)  
  
Though it pained him, Jack borrowed a book or two from Kangaroo-Face—large, weathered books with smooth covers, tied together with twine—and left them for her to read during the long days of his absence, while he was busy in the mountains of other regions and could not find an opportunity to break away. He appreciated that Bunnymund had had it in him to spare a few of his special volumes, the ones with vivid, hand-painted illustrations on each page, and even more so that he didn't question him, when Jack asked for them in the first place.  
  
(When he returned from the icy terrain of Patagonia, he found Elsa on the floor of her room, celebrating the Spring Equinox in her own little way. The windows were wide open, for once, allowing in a breath of fresh air, and the townspeople could be heard _so clearly_ , in all of their laughter and dance.  
  
She'd made him a flower crown, which he wore with pride. She'd trailed her gloved fingertips over the soft petals of her own with careful consideration, appreciating the richness of their texture, the simplicity of their beauty; when she'd slipped a glove from her hand and froze the petals laced through the strands of his, it was no accident, and Jack beamed as she placed it carefully atop his head.  
  
He wore it for two whole days, until it fell apart.)

Dreams, on the other hand, were trickier.  
  
Jack had no idea what to make of her dreams, or how often she had them at all. If she suffered from nightmares, then he did not know it, and quicker than he'd have liked to admit, Jack found himself avoiding Sandy at meetings, and purposefully missing his gaze while passing by. It wasn't fair, he knew, to be jealous, or resentful.

_(But Jack was no stranger to feelings such as those, for three hundred years he was no stranger, and like he always said—old habits died hard.)_

He could see the hurt in Sandy's eyes whenever he lost the will not to look, which was just all the more reason for him not to look at Sandy at all. It was hard to remember that Sandy was helping Elsa—and, by extension, helping _him—_ when half the Sand Man's glances were those of apology, or consolation, or cautious, practiced, patient indifference. Sandy seemed to know exactly what Jack was doing— _he was so transparent, always, could never slip anything past nobody; for all his stupid years of invisibility, and his supposed slyness, he was just as painfully obvious with his heart on his sleeve as he'd been when it was actually beating warmth instead of ice_ —but Sandy seemed wholly unconcerned to stop it, determined to let Jack ride out his childish whims until the end. Jack resented him for it, a little, but was grateful too, which only made him angrier.

The silence between them had never been louder.  
  
Jack tried to answer as honestly and fairly as he could when Elsa asked about him, about how the sand worked and whether he was always the maker of dreams, or if there were other dream-makers, too. ( _He would not tell her of Pitch—he dared not to, not yet, maybe not ever—_ ) And he helped her find a book on making dreamcatchers in the library when she quietly admitted that, sometimes, they came to her, the nightmares, often when she least expected them. They worked through one long summer night, carefully weaving and looping the soft threads into intricate webs, with beads from the west and sticks from the nearby forest. Toothiana, ever his lifeline, graciously offered a few of her own feathers for the cause, as a gift; Elsa cherished them with her whole heart.  
  
Elsa asked him once, if any of his other special assignments had nightmares as often as she did.  
  
He didn't have an answer for her.  
  
By the time winter had once again swept up the land, covering it in thick, beautiful, wonderful snow, Elsa had already read all three volumes of North's Saga. ( _Twice._ ) Throughout the whole of December, she hit him with barrage after barrage of endless questions— _What does the North Pole look like? What's it like to ride in his sleigh? Have you ridden in it before, Jack? Is it terrifying and wonderful?_ —and it didn't matter, no, that he'd wondered at all of those questions, himself, _oh no_. Suddenly, Elsa's questions exhausted him in a way they never had before.

(And okay, so maybe he was a little jealous. Not quite as badly as before—just enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth, bitter and dry, until he snapped himself out of it, and smiled through his petty qualms with as much heart as he could muster. Elsa's questions eventually thinned into few, so she must have caught on, which Jack felt bad about, but he couldn't help it for some reason, not when she looked up at the sky at night with Wonder.)

He arrived late on Christmas Eve, afraid that he wouldn't have it in him to answer another stream of North-related questions, and stopped short when he saw not _one_ stocking at the foot of her bed—but two.  
  
Anna had never heard of such a silly tradition, so her own bed post was empty, but the largest sock at the foot of Elsa's bed was embroidered for the two of them, meant for them to share; the smaller one was hidden round the corner, facing the window, where she slept.  
  
 _Jack_ , it read, stitched in silvery thread, and he knew he was being ridiculous.

He gave North a salute as he stumbled through the hearth in the corner, and _shhh_ -ed him when he laughed too loud. He almost slugged him, too, when North dropped a whole sack of coal into his stocking, but softened when he filled Elsa's little sock with her favorite toys: notebooks and pens, modern and not, books and scrolls and little paintings on rolled up canvases. A sheer sash for Anna, and two pairs of matching gloves—one set considerably smaller than the other. Too many boxes of chocolates, so many that they needed stacking on the floor, and a silver, miniature figurine of a reindeer for Anna... one that suspiciously resembled Sven. A small mirror, encrusted with jewels. A map of the North Pole.

And that was when North offered Jack a knowing smile, and slipped Jack's coal back into his overstuffed sack, away from the fine thread of the handmade stocking Elsa had made for him. In its stead, North placed a brand new book of a familiar story, to share when Jack saw fit.  
  
 _The Rise of the Guardians_ , and namely—his.

(His heart welled in his throat as his eyes glided across the first page. _My name is Jack Frost—how do I know that?_  
  
 _The Moon told me so_.)

Jack didn't say, but the illustrations did him justice, probably more than he deserved, and if Jack was being honest, he figured that— _if anything_ —he was a lot more deserving of the coal... not a beautifully bound book to help share the story that he was too cowardly to tell, himself.  
  
( _But that was all he ever told me. And that was a long, long time ago._ )  
  
Jack stayed through the whole of Christmas Eve with Elsa, long after North had retreated to his sleigh and called out a hearty goodbye from the sky in his majestic sleigh. Jack almost regretted not waking Elsa, to show her.  
  
(Would she still see it—next year?)  
  
Elsa slept peacefully through the night, curled up against the cold window, while Jack absently flipped through the pages of his story, trying to see it through Elsa's eyes. (Was she old enough to understand? Would she be angry with him, for not telling her the truth, sooner? What kind of ways would she look at him differently, when she learned that he'd died once, in a different world, and would be, forever more, just as he was now? Would she see the truth beneath his skin, which was just as cold and bitter and broken as his mind, and endlessly seventeen?  
  
Would she think him a ghost, after all?)

With a jolt, Jack realized why he'd never much liked Christmas, even if Elsa was there to share it with him.

It was hard to see a world through Wonder, in the face of so much Fear.

. * * * .


	31. - stay with -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/20/14_. Whoops. Ended up being a bit busier than I thought I'd be. I've got the day off though and the house all to myself, so I'm ready for a bit of relaxing (angsty) Jelsa writing. 
> 
> Also, I've been listening to this [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9nFynxnjA0) a lot. :(

 

. * * * .

_\- stay with -_

. * * * .

 

“The Snow Queen,”  
she said, staring out a window  
laced with filigree white and moonlight, and  
  
Jack's heart skipped a beat.

.

.

.

.

“What?” he breathed, shifting closer.

She did not repeat herself, not at first, so Jack was left in brittle silence. (Even when he joined her at the window in the long, lonely corridor— _the glass large and bright without the thick, dusty curtains there, suffocating it._ ) He almost wasn't expecting it, when she shut her eyes and whispered, “ _Snow Queen_ .”  
  
He was watching her reflection in the glass when she opened them again, and he saw her lips move and he heard her— _always_ —even if he didn't understand.

“They call me that, sometimes. The townspeople,” she told him, as casually as if she were informing him of the name of one of the trade ships docked in the harbor; diplomatic, the way a young princess-in-training was supposed to sound; detached, like she'd already dried her tears.

( _But, no—she didn't cry._  
 _Not anymore_.)

  
“But—that's impossible—” Jack's tongue twisted uselessly in his mouth. His throat was tight, thick with all of the things he needed to say—he was a Guardian—we will get through this— “How did they—?”  
  
“They don't know the truth,” Elsa interrupted him quietly, and wrapped her arms around herself. He knew it was not because of the cold.

It is then he saw what she was staring at, outside. There in the courtyard beyond the castle gates, was a group of young men and women, barely more than boys and girls, playing in the nighttime snow. Jack's eyes lingered on the playful crowd through the coating of frost, and he tried not to blur his vision further with the ice on his breath. He had a feeling that a few of them might have still been able to see him, if they'd ever believed in him in the first place. Maybe.

Not that he would have let them see.

( _They were laughing, and building snowmen, and throwing snowballs—_  
 _but Jack was in no mood to play._ )

  
“Then... what... ?” Jack was turning, but he halted suddenly, to trailing off at the look in her eyes. The pain and the loneliness, buried deep beneath the blue.  
  
 _Guardian,_ his mind whispered.  
  
“I can hear them, when they think the adults aren't around. Funny, how far voices can travel on the wind,” she said, and she even smiled, cold and brittle. Jack remained helplessly silent. “ _The Snow Queen_. Or the Ice Queen, sometimes... they have no idea, of course, of the truth,” she continued, with that relentless indifference, and Jack looked at her, abhorred.

“I suppose I can't blame them,” Elsa said evenly, and gave a slow shrug of her shoulders, which weighted down by the heavy wool of her cardigan. _(The pressures of her parents. The responsibility of power. The waiting and trying and secrecy and the isolation, all of it.)_ “Really. The cold, mysterious Princess of Arendelle, who hasn't set foot outside these walls in five years. Who can be seen through the window... but only when it snows.” Elsa thought for a moment, considering. “I suppose it could be worse.”  
  
“Elsa,” he said—and she stilled. He so rarely used his serious voice, but Jack has never needed it more than right now, in this moment. His eyes blazed in the mirror of the glass, but all he saw was Elsa's reflection, beside his. His voice was harsh, forceful, when he leaned closer and tried to tell her, so many different things at once, “ _They don't know anything_.”  
  
The words might have actually helped, but it was hard to tell. ( _“Conceal_ ,” she always reminded him. _“Don't feel_ ,” like her father always said. She was already a master, Jack thought.)  
  
His stomach dropped.

“No... and yet, they do,” she replied, far too sagely for someone her age—twelve-years-old... what a dangerous time for a Guardian like him. Twelve.  
  
It was how old Jamie had been, when he'd stopped believing.

 

( _He'd known all along that it would happen—that it would happen to Jamie, too._  
 _He just expected Jamie, out of all children—_  
  
 _—to last a little longer_.)

  
“Elsa,” Jack swallowed, shifting his body away from the windowsill. He couldn't take it any longer. ( _A ball of panic was rising in his throat, in the shape of useless swallows and a knotted brow and a chest that felt empty no matter how hard he sucked the air in._ ) “Forget about them, all right?”  
  
Elsa said nothing, but a tiny crease appeared between her brow. Jack saw it immediately.  
  
“What is it?” he whispered, stepping closer. She was still watching the townspeople play in the snow, when he really wished that she'd just look away.  
  
“Have I ever told you, Jack... about a dream I once had?”  
  
It took Jack a moment to find his tongue. “You... I don't think you've ever told me about any of your dreams.”  
  
“I dream about the Troll King sometimes, casting his spell,” she told him, as if he weren't clinging to her every word. “I used to dream that after he'd healed Anna, he cursed her with her own powers, too, of springtime and summer,” she told him, and Jack stared at her, as an indescribable shock wiped his mind white. “But once I dreamed that after taking away Anna's memory of the Accident... that he'd taken mine, too.

“Sometimes, just as I am waking up—before I'm thinking clearly—I remember that dream and I think, _I almost wish he had_.”

Jack stared at her, and felt his fingertips go numb.

“It's a lot easier to forget the good things, isn't it?” Elsa whispered after a long moment, staring past the ice. “The bad memories always seem to want to stay with you longer... And it's becoming a lot harder now, I think, to remember the good.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Jack?”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Jack?”

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .


	32. - dead weight -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/20/14_. That two today! Still hoping for at least one more!
> 
> "[Monster](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhSA9H9Iaqw)" by Imagine Dragons has been on repeat for a while now. D: It fits this drabble particularly well.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- dead weight -_  
  
. * * * .

“Jack,” Toothiana whispered, through the golden, sunset rays of her palace. “I think you should tell her. North gave you that book for a reason. It's time.”  
  
“Says who? The Guardian who's already given up on her?”  
  
“Jack, I _told_ you. My powers don't work for Elsa the way they do for other children—her happy memories are just as heavy as the painful ones. I could do more harm than good. What's helping Elsa _now_ is the prospect of moving forward—not back.”  
  
“So you're saying that me telling her that I—that _I'm_ —just some—animated _corpse_ who crawled his way out of a hole in the ice—is the best way to do that?”  
  
“ _Jack,_ ” she hissed, and suddenly she was in his face, burning the skin of his face with the flames in her amethyst eyes. “Jack Frost, do not _talk_ about yourself like that, because I won't hear it. You are a Guardian for a _reason._ ”  
  
“Yeah,” he spat, refusing to retreat. “Because I had a little sister, too—one who I gave up everything for, without even thinking twice about it.”  
  
Toothiana reared back, blinking with shock. “You... regret it?”  
  
“ _Never,”_ he snarled. __  
  
“Then, what... I don't—”  
  
“I don't want it getting stuck in her head!” Jack growled, leaning forward to recapture the space between them. His world was spinning. It felt good to have some measure of control again, however much he could get. “I don't want her to have to make the same choice I did! Because it wouldn't _be_ a choice,” he told her, hissing his words through rattling teeth. There was a long moment, in which Jack's chest caved and rose with each pull of each fruitless breath, and Toothiana stared at him, with pity, and sadness, seeing right through to all of the other parts of himself that he liked to pretend he didn't have. “I don't want her to have to face it in the first place,” he whispered.  
  
He looked at her then— _really_ looked at her—possibly for the first time he arrived on her doorstep, unexpected and unannounced. He could have argued that centuries spent in invisibility meant he had very little experience in detailing his whereabouts, but Jack knew that wasn't the reason why he'd made himself a habit of purposefully catching Toothiana off-guard.  
  
He was coming to find that he was a lot more predictable than he'd realized.

( _That's why Pitch was able to manipulate you—so easily,_ whispered a voice, nagging, at the back of his mind.  
 _You were just a puppet in his game, selfish and careless. He'd used that to his advantage._  
  
 _He could do it again._ )

 _Tooth,_ Jack's mind whispered pleadingly, before he could help it. She'd risen to his height, and now there was no escape. She was waiting for him to say something more, but he was all out of words.  
  
 _(We need you. Tooth—we need you.)_  
  
“Then help her learn from your decisions,” Toothiana whispered softly. “Tell her the truth.”  
  
“Why?” he breathed, but even that held a rasp to it. “So she can just forget it later?”  
  
“Jack...”  
  
He shook his head, sharply, when she reached for him. “ _No_ ,” he rasped, and pulled himself back. “No. Don't tell me that this is the way, or some garbage about acceptance. I got it, all right? Believe me—I got it.”  
  
“She will remember the lessons you've taught her,” Toothiana whispered, lowering her hand. “Even when she doesn't remember who it was that taught them to her.”  
  
The breath stilted in Jack's lungs— _useless, anyway_. (He wondered how long it'd been, actually, since a breath of fresh air had actually managed to feel like it once did? Like air, instead of needles and fire?) His head shook back and forth, but still, her words crept into his mind, seeped into his lungs, to the very tips of his fingers, and deeper, still.  
  
Jack's face fell forward, his chin sharp upon his chest. He leaned heavily against his staff, feeling like a dead weight floating, and reminded himself that he was on a cloud.  
  
“What if that's not enough?” he whispered.

But Toothiana merely swallowed and said, “It's all you can hope for.”

. * * * .


	33. - a trick -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/23/14_. Back! :) Skiing was incredible yesterday. (Now I need someone who's actually an expert skier and snowboarder to write a Jelsa AU in which Jack and Elsa meet at a mountain ski lodge--AHEM, RINA. AHEMM.)
> 
> Two for today! They're sort of connected, so it works.

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- a trick -_

. * * * .

It took Jack four days to find the courage.  
  
And even then, his determination was meager, at best.  
  
(“ _I don't understand. I thought I've already heard your story... You woke up in the lake, and... wandered the world for centuries. You helped save the children's dreams, and kept them believing in the Guardians. And then you became one, yourself.”_ )  
  
But what she hadn't heard was the beginning; the part she had wondered about, once, so many years before—the one he'd told her didn't exist. At least, not in his memory. The part containing his life... and death. His sacrifice.  
  
( _The prologue._ )  
  
He told himself that she was old enough to understand. That she wouldn't think him a liar, when he'd told her all those years ago that he wasn't a ghost. That she wouldn't stare at him with suspicion, or uncertainty, or fear.  
  
Not after everything that they had been through.

.  
.  
.

But there were details that he missed; things that were omitted, on purpose.

Pitch was given no name. (Just a dark force—known as Fear, itself,  
which retreated into its crater, in the end.  
  
Gone, for good.)  
  
And Jack couldn't really explain why, but the word _center_ ,  
and all of the power it conveyed...  
  
Was never mentioned.

.  
.  
.

Elsa curled herself into the window seat, staring at the floor as he read aloud.  
  
“I think I've known for a while,” Elsa whispered, when he'd finally finished. “That there was more to your magic than you let on... That you weren't quite human.”  
  
The truth of it didn't mean it hurt him any less.  
  
“Oh, yeah?” he tried to smile, fingering a corner of one of the pages. The book was still open in his lap. “Guess I shouldn't be surprised... Though, to be fair, I don't really know what I am. Or any of us, for that matter.”  
  
“Am I not entirely human either, then?”  
  
Jack nearly fell off his side of the windowsill. The book slipped from his fingers, only to be caught at the last moment, clumsily. Elsa lifted her head from the pillow of her hands to blink up at him, concerned.  
  
“Why would you think that?” he whispered, stricken.  
  
Elsa did something that he'd rarely seen her do before. She shrugged.  
  
“Elsa,” he said, quickly setting the book to the rug and coming to sit on the floor at her side. He made sure that his eyes were level with hers, where she laid on the cushioned seat. “That wasn't—this isn't why I told you this,” he tried, feeling even more inarticulate than usual. “I mean, I expected you to question things, but—”  
 _  
But not this_.  
  
“I know,” Elsa replied, and drew invisible patterns into the seat with the tip of one gloved finger. “I just thought... I don't know what I thought,” she admitted. “I've never thought like that before.”  
  
“Well,” Jack shifted uneasily on the floor. “All right... I was just—surprised. I mean, I expected you to... We just— _haven't_ really talked about magic in a while, have we? Not really, anyway.”  
  
There was a lot of stuff they hadn't talked about, actually.  
  
“I didn't tell you because—it's just that—it was so important, in the beginning—”  
  
( _Little steps_ , Jack's mind urged, as the inevitable ball of panic began to rise. _Little steps. One thing at a time. All the time in the world—or, at least—_  
  
— _pretend like there is_.)  
  
“Elsa, are you okay?” he asked suddenly, cutting off his own rambling. “This is pretty new... well. Some of it. But, I mean, I understand if—”  
  
“I'm okay.”

(Jack appreciated her honesty, sometimes more than anything.  
It was easy to believe her with that clear gaze, the sight of her serene face...  
but it was hard, too, when her voice could so openly, believably say, _I'm okay,_  
while her eyes asked:  
  
 _Jack—are_ you _okay?_ )

“Jack... whatever happened to Jamie?”  
  
He cleared his throat, trying to swallow down his anxiety. _(Focus on the present_ , he heard his mind whisper, through a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bunny's.)  
  
 _Focus._  
  
 _“_ He's doing well for himself,” Jack answered, going for vague, then caught sight of her knowing frown. Jack blew the air from his cheeks in a heavy sigh and braced himself; if telling her the truth had meant anything, it meant that it was going to be a lot harder to keep things from her now.  
  
 _Here goes_ , Jack sighed.  
  
“Well. I don't know... He's happy, which is good. He got himself a girlfriend and is off to college— _ah,_ ” Jack remembered himself, letting his eyes drift to the floor. “College. It's like—it's like university. He's leaving home to become a scholar, as you would call it. Next year, during the fall.” He ran a hand over his face, tiredness creeping into his bones. (He was still waiting on a few letters though, wasn't he? A school or two from some place in the east, where the rest of his family was? Or in the southwest, where it hardly ever got cold? And where was the girlfriend planning to go? Jack wasn't even sure Jamie really liked her all that much, anyway. They would split, wouldn't they?)  
  
When he looked up, Elsa's eyes were wide.  
  
“What?” Jack asked, alarmed.  
  
“You mean... this only happened... _recently_?”  
  
Jack blinked at her. _Was_ ten years recent?  
  
“It might be,” Elsa answered, letting Jack know that he'd spoken out loud. “For you.”

. * * * .  
  
Elsa's eyes looked so much wiser then, in that moment,  
enough to chase the breath from his lungs;  
like an ice pick through the chest,  
or a swift punch to the gut,  
and Jack promised himself  
it was just a trick of the light.  
  
. * * * .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... if you've done the math, you've already realized that the year Jack Frost started working on his special assignment with Elsa was the same year that Jamie stopped believing in him. 
> 
> :(
> 
> Sorry.


	34. - every detail -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/23/14_. Last one of the day! It's also the last day of my school's vacation week, so I'm hoping for a more regular schedule again soon. :) 
> 
> "[Pompeii](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m326LNIRB3k)" by Bastille for this one. Also, my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com), again!
> 
> Thanks again, everyone, for all of the sweet comments, kudos, and bookmarks! :)

. * * * .  
  
 _\- every detail -_  
  
. * * * .

  
Or, four reasons why Jack's sixth year with Elsa  
was harder than he thought possible.

  
. * * * .  
  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 1 ) -_

As anticlimactic as his big reveal had been, Jack couldn't help feeling that maybe Elsa really _did_ think of him differently, now that she knew the truth. It was possible she was still thinking things through, processing it and organizing it all in her mind, before saying anything. That was how Elsa worked most of the time, anyway. So really, it wouldn't be a surprise if, two weeks from that night at the window, she turned to him suddenly and said, “ _You lied to me, Jack.”_  
  
At least, that's usually what he imagined she'd say, whenever he let his mind wander too far.  
  
And she did ask him more questions, eventually, such as, _“Were you angry, when you realized that Toothiana had held your memories all along?”_ and _“How could she have not known?”_ He answered them as best he could, and it helped some, that he'd already asked them all before, himself. He spoke honestly, for better or worse, when he told Elsa that he did not blame the other Guardians, or the Man in the Moon, or Mother Nature, or his beloved little sister, or anybody.  
  
He did not tell her that he usually just blamed himself.  
  
But then she asked him questions that he couldn't always answer, like, “ _What did it feel like—to die?”_  
  
Because he wasn't really sure.  
  
She wanted to know where he'd lived and what it was like now, and what it was like to live for so long, watching so many years pass before his very eyes. ( _H_ _e remained the same, always, while the world grew around him, without him, beyond him_.) The day she made the connection that _his_ world wasn't quite _hers_ , a new whirlwind of questions opened wide, sweeping him right off his feet; she wanted to know each and every detail of the world in which he became a Guardian, every difference and every similarity. She wanted to picture it in her mind, the tall skyscrapers and motored vehicles and— _her favorite_ —the machines that could generate their own snow. Elsa listened with rapt attention as he explained the different ways in which winter was honored in his world, through recreation and sport, where snow-capped mountains were appreciated for beauty just as much as entertainment. Where ice-skating dancers were rewarded with roses thrown from above, and bobsleds hurtled down mountain slopes at frightening speeds. Where sculptures of ice were made with chisels and hammers, with time and patience, and endless care; where they were admired.  
  
And then there were even easier questions, the answers to which he could have spent days answering and—sometimes—did. ( _“What's it like to fly, Jack? Were you afraid of your powers, when you first discovered them? What would you say to your little sister now, if you could see her again? Do you think your mother would have been proud?”_ )  
  
She kept asking and he kept answering, and sometimes there was magic and sometimes there wasn't, but Jack enjoyed every precious second.  
  
Because he wasn't sure how many were left.

 _._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 2 ) -_

It was a lot harder than he thought it'd be, watching Anna play by herself in the snow.  
  
It was just as difficult—though, for different reasons—for Jack to carry Anna back to her own room every so often, without waking her.  
  
During the early winter of Elsa's twelfth year, Jack noticed that Anna had taken to wandering the halls late at night, when all the rest of the castle slept; he knew this because, every once in a while, he would find her curled against the bottom of Elsa's bedroom door, huddled against the hardwood, shuddering in her sleep.  
  
He was never quite sure if Anna's destination was a conscious one or the product of a sleepwalker's dream, but in the end, he supposed it didn't really matter; Jack continually did his best to scoop her into his arms without jostling her, to not rap her in the head with the hook of his staff while he carried her down the halls, to set her down gently in her own bed without waking her, or hurting her, or spreading too much of his chill. (Really. His embrace probably wasn't much better than that of the draft.) It was a process, but at least it got easier.  
  
Familiar.  
  
And if Anna shivered at any point while in his arms, he usually whispered an apology, and hoped that she could hear it through her dreamless sleep.  
  
(Though sometimes, Jack only let himself stare straight ahead, and pretended not to notice.)

Jack was often struck by the idea that it was sort of lucky, almost, that Anna was plagued by these nighttime visits _now_ , rather than the years before, when Elsa had been so much more likely to leave her room.  
  
And, if he was being honest with himself, he was continually surprised that Anna still found her way to Elsa's room at all.

 _._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 3 ) -_

On one or two occasions, the Queen paid Elsa an unexpected visit.  
  
For example, one particular springtime day in March, Elsa and Jack were enjoying themselves in the library; it was a rare daytime adventure—one made only because Anna was holed up in her room all day with her tutors' endless assessments—and Elsa had been luxuriating in the freedom with a good book on the balcony... until Jack, persuaded by boredom, decided to have a bit of fun with the groundskeeper in the garden below.  
  
( _“My, that's unusual—isn't it, Elsa? A refreshing game of ice-flinging between the groundskeeper and his staff... And here I'd thought their drinks had been served with those little ice chunks to keep them cool. My mistake.”_  
  
“ _Well, I must admit—their soaked shirt-fronts_ do _appear rather chilled, even if their lemon drinks do not.”_  
  
 _“Oh, look—the tallest one just dropped a block of ice down the back of his partner's tunic. A simple accident _—_ or a well-timed strategic maneuver?"_)  
  
It was while Elsa and Jack were caught up in giggles—over the splashing and misunderstandings and general foolishness of good-natured roughhousing—that in walked the Queen, holding a tray complete with two empty glasses and one fine pitcher of Elsa's favorite sweet drink. The rims were already topped with wedges of lemon and lime, and fresh ice chunks lined the bottom of each glass.  
  
“Mother,” Elsa said quietly, caught in pleasant surprise. She was still at the balcony, but gravitated toward her mother in all but an instant... leaving Jack alone on the ledge of the balcony to wait.  
  
To wonder at how quickly laughter could evaporate into thin air.  
  
Jack bowed out as gracefully as possible, making sure that Elsa saw his cheeky salute before all but stepping back off of the balcony and floating into the too-warm wind. He saw Elsa smile at him, as he left, and that was what he forced himself to focus on, as he fell.  
  
He did not allow his gaze to linger on the Queen.

 _._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 4 ) -_

It was a fine summer day when Jack realized that Elsa was no longer forced  
to peer through the spaces of the library's balcony to see the ocean's waves beyond.  
  
She was now a foot taller than the railing, after all.

  
. * * * .


	35. - most days -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/24/14_. Because you can never do too many 1sentence challenges! :D This is the Alpha set from the 1sentence challenge at LiveJournal and it is my third time completing a set—they're so fun! I'm going to be breaking these up into groups of ten so that the prompts fit more chronologically with what I've got planned. :)

. * * * .  
  
 _\- most days -_  
  
. * * * .  


 **#01 – Comfort**  
“Could you please ask Sandy to come tonight—please, if it's not too much trouble?”  
  
 **#02 – Kiss**  
“Don't fret, Little Anna, for although it seems very far, you will one day find a love who deserves you—someone who is everything you never knew you needed,” promised the Queen, as she brushed the backs of her fingers along her youngest daughter's brow, and wished her a peaceful night.  
 **  
#03 – Soft**  
If there was one way of persuading the Kangaroo to lay off him for any supposed short-temperedness—which, there _wasn't_ , for the record—then it probably had something to do with a fluffy bunny he met once on the streets of Burgess, who had a certain weak spot for being scratched behind his ears...  
  
 **#04 – Pain**  
With September came the onset of Elsa's 12-year molars, as well all of the implications that rooted with them.  
  
 **#05 – Potatoes**  
Anna pushed the cold remnants of her untouched dinner around her gold-rimmed plate and attempted a smile at the cook every once in a while, so as not to offend him; her father reminded her to mind her table manners, but Jack didn't think anyone could mistake the source of her disappointment (her lack of appetite, clearly, had little to do with taste).

 **#06 – Rain**  
“What does it feel like?” Elsa asked one quiet morning, much to Jack's his surprise; his answer was to smuggle her onto the library balcony through a number of emptied halls—courtesy of one or two tricks on the nearby servants, all harmless, of course—and let her stand with her face turned towards the sky, so she could learn the truth firsthand.  
  
 **#07 – Chocolate**  
Elsa reached for the new box of chocolates, fresh from North's overstuffed sack, then whispered, “These are Anna's favorites,” and set them aside; Jack would deliver them, later.  
  
 **#08 – Happiness**  
It used to come easiest from the sound of her laughter, but most days, he would have settled for a smile.  
  
 **#09 – Telephone**  
“Sandy told me that you aren't daydreaming as often as you used to,” Toothiana said in a hushed voice once the others had dispersed, but before he could so much as roll his eyes, she said, “I'm worried about you, Jack.”  
  
 **#10 – Ears  
** “Go away, Anna,” she whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

. * * * .


	36. - warm-blooded -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/25/14_. We are reaching the end of an arc! I don't know about you, but I've been sort of dying over here, waiting for Elsa to grow older...
> 
> Two quick drabbles today!

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- warm-blooded -_

. * * * .

 

Jack was in Michigan, of all places, when he spotted the most beautiful girl in the world.  
  
She was too old to believe in him, if she ever did in the first place— _it was hard to remember, sometimes, how young of a Guardian he really was_ —but she had a little brother, and that was enough of an excuse for Jack to trail after them all day. He made their snow day the best one they'd had in years.  
  
But eventually, a group of teenagers arrived at the park where they where playing, and the little brother was left to find friends of his own.  
  
Jack stayed behind with him, watching them go, and felt a hole rip through his chest in the most unexpected way.

  
. * * * .

As far as Jack knew, he'd always been a bit of a charmer.  
  
He hadn't really been all that interested in girls, to be honest, back when he was alive. ( _Too much else to think about, when you were one of the ones putting food on the table._ ) Though from what he _did_ remember, he had, at least, liked to look; he'd been a warm-blooded seventeen-year-old boy, after all, and—technically speaking—he still, sort of, was. At least, the seventeen part was the the same.

(The rest of it, not so much.)  
  
As it was, Jack made it a point of avoiding Elsa's mother for reasons he didn't entirely understand.

. * * * .

 


	37. - like puppets -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/25/14_. Last one for the day!

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- like puppets -_

. * * * .

Then Elsa turned thirteen, and Jack became something of a mess.

. * * * .

Jack Frost was not one to overreact but, as it was, paranoia was rearing its ugly head in a plethora of tiny, miniscule ways—some subtle, some less than—and usually not to anyone's benefit. The winter spirit who had once eschewed rules and responsibilities became obsessed with preserving routines. Jack followed his nightly rounds as if on a schedule, and spoke as if reciting from a script. (A wave of the hand, a practiced grin, a flash of teeth, and— _boom_. He was gone.)

The primary focus of Jack's visits began to center back around to the practice of Elsa's magic and, as much as possible, he encouraged her to try new techniques. Even with the limitations of her space, Elsa was getting much better at creating different items on the spot—the images were sharper, the edges and details more defined. Jack wanted to work on animation, next—and not just like the ships they used to make, or the other shapes that they could move like puppets, which dissolved the second a hand was no longer there to guide them. He wanted to see if Elsa could one day create objects that could move on their own, _without_ her immediate control, like his frost rabbit. He felt like there was a deeper lesson in that, somewhere, but he couldn't put his finger on it. ( _Maybe, if she learned to trust herself enough to let the magic flow naturally, smoothly, without holding back_ —)

It would have been a lot easier, Jack thought, if he could convince her to go outside.

. * * * .

The first two, Jack had been able to slide by pretty easily, but the _third_ time Jack ignored a summons from the North Pole, he knew he was in trouble.  
  
“I just don't get why I have to drop everything for a meeting that doesn't even need me there, anyway.”  
  
“Jack Frost,” said North, who raised his big, hulking hands into the air in disbelief. “You are _Guardian_ now. We work _together_ to solve each other's problems. Toothiana has concerns that her palace—”  
  
“Tooth?” Jack stumbled to a halt, swinging back to face North at his workshop desk. “You called us here for _Tooth_?”  
  
“Yes, which _you would know_ , if you had answered summons when called!”  
  
Scowling, Jack turned toward the window. It was a lot easier to hide his chagrin, that way. “Why didn't she just call us, herself?” he muttered, and wiped a hand across his face. (Funny. This gesture felt familiar. Had this always been a habit of his?)  
  
“Because she needs _Guardians_ to guide her—all of us,” North answered sternly, then sat down in his large wooden chair with surprising aplomb. “The number of memories Toothiana is responsible for storing has never been greater, and she fears that her palace may not be fit to house them all.”  
  
“You mean... the memories won't _fit?_ ”  
  
“That is what I said. The memories will grow too large, too many, even with magic,” North answered quietly, lacing his fingers together atop his desk. “Our mission is to find new place for Toothiana. New means of storing memories.”  
  
“Well...” Jack said quietly, slowly inching closer to North's desk. “How are we going to do that?”  
  
North sucked in a deep, sharp breath, and held onto it, fiercely, for so long that Jack's eyes widened with dread.  
  
Then, he deflated, and Jack was left standing in disbelief with his mouth hanging open as North sternly crossed his arms, and gruffly announced, “I haven't slightest idea.”

. * * * .

Jack told Elsa this, and was surprised by her take.  
  
“The Guardians have homes?” she asked interestedly, then moved one of her pieces forward. (Jack didn't have the patience for chess, even if it was Elsa's game of choice; she took pity on him and they played checkers—but that didn't mean that Jack often won. Mercy, after all, was a different story.)  
  
“Well, yeah,” Jack answered, staring at the checkerboard with only half his attention. He moved a piece forward, until Elsa corrected him with a shake of her head, reminding him that his move wasn't allowed. “Tooth lives in this big, bright, golden castle in the sky, on top of a bunch of clouds,” he explained, and settled for his secondary move, although he truly didn't know what the hell he was doing. (She was probably going to wipe the floor with him. Again.) “North has his Polar ice caps, and Bunny has a warren in Australia—ah. This place way down south—we call it, 'The Land Down Under'. Actually. Other people call it that. I don't. Anyway. And then Sandy has the Island of the Sleepy Sands, though I've been telling him for years that we've _got_ to come up with a different name for it.”  
  
“Where do you live?”  
  
“What?” Jack blinked, nearly dropping his checker.  
  
“Your home,” Elsa said, then carefully demolished three of his pieces with hers. “Where is yours?”  
  
Jack stared at the board, unsure of how to answer.  
  
“Do you... not have one yet?” Elsa asked cautiously, catching onto his discomfort. “Because you only just became a Guardian? I'm sure there are lots of beautiful places for winter in your world. You must have a very difficult time of deciding.”  
  
“Yeah,” he said slowly, grateful for the answer she supplied. (Was Burgess still his home? Could he call a frozen lake, without a tombstone, without loved ones to honor his memory—a home?) “It _is_ kind of difficult, with so many places to choose from.”  
  
Elsa offered a small smile, and Jack let himself be happy and grateful, for as long as the moment would allow.  
  
And then Elsa captured two of his remaining pieces, and reached the end of the board. She set down her piece with a graceful hand, then neatly folded it with the other in her lap.  
  
“Queen me,” she said quietly, eyes glinting, and Jack thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

. * * * .  
  
Of course, there _were_ plenty of beautiful winters in the world, more wonderful and terrifying and powerful than could ever be described.  
  
Though he never quite missed them, the way he did the winters of Arendelle.

. * * * .


	38. - a guardian -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/26/14_.

 

 _. * * * ._  
  
\- a guardian -  
  
 _. * * * ._

  
But even still, the tricks grew fewer. His laughter, less loud. His flashy grins and half-smirks were there, but they never lasted as long as they used to, and Elsa noticed.  
  
He was uncertain if her resolution to silence on the matter was more a testament to her courtesy or an indication of his own cowardice, but Jack was determined to hold off from sharing his own concerns with Elsa for as long as possible. (Telling her about Toothiana's palace was different. _This_ was different.) There was no need to concern her, too, about something that couldn't be helped.  
  
Elsa already struggled with control enough as it was.  
  
While in Arendelle, he made an active effort to keep himself in check, but with the others... it was much more difficult.  
  
“You don't _have_ to go on pretending like you're this perfect pillar of strength,” Toothiana urged him, when his temper had snapped too quickly, one too many times. “Every hit you take alone just weathers you down more and more, until there's nothing left—if you keep bottling this up every time something happens and then just—just letting it boil over and _explode_ when you're away from Arendelle, you'll do much more harm than good.”

“So am I being worn down, or am I exploding? They're kind of different, don't you think?”

“ _Jack. Frost_.”

He frowned. Her scolding often had an edge to it, but this felt especially condescending. She wasn't his mother.

“I could have all the time in the world and I still wouldn't have a fucking clue,” he said suddenly, voice harsh, quiet with bitterness. “But as it is, I've only got another year. Maybe two, if I'm lucky.”  
  
( _But he wasn't, and the universe would never allow him that much._ )  
  
“What do you want me to say, Jack?” Toothiana demanded, angrier and more severe than he'd ever seen her. “To tell you that Elsa will be different? That she'll keep on believing in you when she's thirty? Eighty?”  
  
“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” Jack demanded, and slammed his staff into the ground—sharp tendrils of ice snaked outward, shooting bright electric sparks past his ankles, and Toothiana flitted back, eyes narrowed. “How the hell am I supposed to help her!”  
  
“You can start by changing your tone,” Toothiana said severely, peering down her long, delicate nose with burning eyes. “And then you realize, eventually, that you _can't_.”

Jack stared at her. The cage in his chest began to cave inward, suffocating, like something was pressing hard and deep against his sternum, crushing it toward his spine.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, hissing his words like a curse.  
  
A deep, heavy sigh drifted out of Toothiana, then, and slowly—enough for the space of two full breaths to pass—she lowered herself to meet his eyes. Without breaking away from his gaze even once, she told him, “You can't protect them from everything, Jack.” ( _Voice soft, eyes hard—the time of sugar-coating and rose-tinted glasses, apparently, long gone_.) “We may live forever... but the point of being a Guardian isn't to _be_ there, for any one child, forever.”  
  
“I never said—”  
  
“But you're _thinking_ it, Jack. You're _wishing_ for it, and that's even more dangerous. The reason for your existence, for your bond with her at all, is so that— _one day_ —however soon that may be, _she_ will be strong enough to go on without you,” she told him, brutally honest; any sympathy in her eyes buried beneath the truth, too deeply for him to see. “You exist so that when she grows old and dies, you will know that you were there in the beginning, to give her the strength she needed to move forward. _That_ is what it means to be a Guardian, Jack,” she said. “To know that, one day, she will no longer believe in you—not enough to make you real. And it's our job to recognize that. To let go.”  
  
Jack shook his head, swallowing the jagged knife in his throat. Each breath felt like a stab of needles, so he didn't bother to breathe at all. The pressure on his chest was still there.

( _But this was a familiar feeling, wasn't it? This breath-catching loneliness,_  
 _the silence and chaos in his mind—the endless years and torture, all wrapped into a few blind seconds of crippling memory,_  
 _unleashed and unraveling and_ this _is why he took his oath, wasn't it? How much of it was ever about the children?_  
 _Had it ever been about the children—any of it?_  
  
 _He was more selfish than they knew, more selfish than they could have ever realized._  
  
 _But he knew it._  
  
 _He knew_.)

“Jack—”  
  
“I never _wanted_ to be a Guardian,” he hissed, before he could help it.  
  
She paused. “So don't be,” Toothiana whispered back eventually, and she was so close, close enough for him to see each strand of her eyelashes, long and bright against the blinding shadows. “It's your choice.”  
  
“It was _never_ my choice,” he argued through a rasp, half-heartedly, as all of the energy began to drain from his limbs, like the sunset was bleeding him dry.  
  
There was a long silence, thick and heavy, and it weighed him down— _like he was a the bottom of the ocean, too deep to sink any further._ Like he couldn't tell which way was up.  
  
“You can keep fighting this life, Jack... or you can start learning to accept it, and learn from it, and do what you need to do to help your children,” Toothiana whispered, and when she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, he was too tired to brush her off. Or maybe he let her, for once—he didn't know.  
  
“But I can't keep being here as a means for you to take out your anger,” she told him softly, and he heard, for the first time, the hurt in her voice, and he struggled to look up from the ground, to meet her eyes, but he couldn't. “I won't allow it. If you want my help, Jack—if you want help from any of us—we are here to give it. But you need to ask.”  
  
( _Hadn't he been? Wasn't that what he'd been doing all along?_ )  
  
“I don't... I don't know how,” he whispered, only to realize that it was true. He felt a slight pressure on his collar, the soft press of her fingers into his skin, so much different than the weight bearing down on the rest of him; her smile was small and strained, but her hand was still on his shoulder, and for once, he didn't mind the warmth.  
  
“Honesty doesn't make a problem go away, Jack,” she said quietly. “But sometimes, it can help make it smaller.”

. * * * .  
  
And finally, Jack thought he might actually believe her.  
  
. * * * .

 


	39. - old soul -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/26/14_. Last one for the day!
> 
> Also, I think now is an appropriate time to start upping the rating a little bit, for what's to come. :P Language is the main reason for the M, for right now.

  
. * * * .  
  
_\- old soul -_  
  
. * * * .  
  
In the spring of her thirteenth year, Elsa lost the last of her baby teeth, and Jack could hide his stress no longer.  
  
. * * * .

“Will you stay with me tonight at the window?” she asked, just as he was preparing himself for goodbye; he almost thought she did that on purpose sometimes, to give him as little time to think about it as possible, so he couldn't change his mind. There was never really any need, obviously, because he would have spent most of his time in Arendelle, if he could have—and he'd very obviously tried—but knowing what he knew about the rest of her own little, private world, Jack could understand her caution on a number of different levels. And, he supposed, she was pretty strategic by nature. (His knack for cleverness and tricking people into giving him what he wanted probably hadn't helped, either; sometimes he really did wonder if he was actually that great of an influence, after all.)

“Jack?”  
  
Steal eight more hours before the arrival of the day that I'll have to leave you forever?  
  
_Of fucking course._  
  
“Sure,” Jack said lightly instead, plopping himself onto the other end of the cushioned seat with practiced, deceptive grace. “I don't see why not.” He leaned the curve of his staff onto the wall behind him, and stuffed his hands into his pockets—but only after yanking the hood of his sweatshirt over the crown of his head with a flick of his wrist. He gave his best impression of a Jack Frost grin, and for the whole of half an hour, all seemed well enough.  
  
Until Jack realized that it wasn't.  
  
“You've been acting strangely,” Elsa said quietly, once he was too lost in his thoughts to notice that she was no longer reading her book, now by candlelight. (It was on purpose now, he was sure of it. She was catching him off-guard, to try to get his answer straightaway. Was he really that transparent?  
  
_Maybe I would have made one hell of a ghost, after all_.)  
  
“You accusing me of something, Your Highness?” Jack joked, and it wasn't even to bide himself some time, either. He already had a script of well-rehearsed lines, ready to go. ( _“It's never easy, but it's not as hard, Jack, if you've done all that you can to prepare,_ ” Tooth had coached him, before saying, “ _And none of us are ever truly prepared.”_ )  
  
“You've been behaving strangely, and I want to know why,” Elsa said clearly, sitting straight and tall against the wall at the other side of the window's frame, hands folded primly over the blanket in her lap. “You've been acting, and you're worried about something. But you don't want to tell me.”  
  
Jack looked at her, and wondered at how stupid he could have been for thinking that he'd have ever been able to fool her.  
  
“And don't tell me that I'm wrong,” she said quickly, though the thought had barely crossed his mind. “I find it quite interesting that after seven-and-a-half years, you behave as if I wouldn't notice the way you try to act happy _all_ the time, or the way you get so lost in thought that it's almost impossible to reach you.”

“I always get lost in thought,” Jack argued lamely, and shifted his hands in his hoodie pocket just slightly, uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Elsa admitted, gaze direct. “But now even when you start speaking again, you never really come back.”  
  
Jack frowned at her words. That had never been his intention, to make Elsa feel like he was unreachable, or more interested in other matters, beyond her— _but it was difficult, trying to keep something like this, this inevitable truth, from the person who it involved completely, from the person who would eventually stop—_  
  
“Are you leaving?”  
  
Jack's eyes widened, and his mouth hung open slightly, jaw dropping from the force of his surprise. “What?” he breathed.  
  
“Are you leaving?” Elsa asked again, clearly. ( _Gaze direct. Voice steady._ ) He almost would have thought that she didn't care about his answer, if he didn't know that she clasped her hands together like that so as to keep them from shaking; if he didn't know her so well.  
  
If he didn't know that nothing could be further from the truth.  
  
_No,_ Jack's mind hissed, at the same moment that it whispered, _Yes,_ and let out a mournful, _Eventually_.  
  
“You are, then,” Elsa looked down to her lap, mistaking his silence for an answer. “Is it because I'm no longer really a child, according to your world?” she asked, before Jack could correct her. Or try to, anyway, because he hadn't really figured it out yet. “Fourteen is really when we are expected to take up more adult responsibility, in Arendelle, and sixteen is when young adults are formally introduced into society,” she explained, needlessly, with that same calm detachment with which she had uttered, _Snow Queen_. “But then again, Mother has always called me an Old Soul.”  
  
Jack's mouth opened soundlessly, his thoughts too twisted to focus properly on any one thing. It should have probably been no surprise then, when the first insensitive thing out of his mouth was:  
  
“How did you know? That the Guardians are only for kids?”  
  
The look she gave him had rocks spiraling in his gut. “Your books claim you to be the Guardians of Childhood, Jack,” Elsa said quietly, and she was already so distant, closing herself off—shutting him out.

“Wait,” he sighed a breath, which settled heavily in his lungs. “That's not what I meant. I didn't mean to—to _say_ it like that, okay? It's not about— _you_ are—what I'm trying to say is—”  
  
“Were you planning to tell me?” she asked, even more quietly than before. She wasn't looking at him, and Jack resisted the urge to scoot closer. Space had always been of the utmost importance to Elsa, from the very beginning, and over the years Jack had come to better understand, little by little, some of the reasons why.  
  
“Eventually,” Jack admitted, wondering at how terribly and quickly this conversation had spiraled out of his control.  
  
“Are you lying?”  
  
“No,” he said immediately, decidedly. She nodded, and he knew that she believed him. “I didn't know when,” he admitted, and a heavy sigh escaped him. “Or how.”  
  
Elsa looked up at him, and the first true traces of her feelings began to show. Against his earlier judgment, Jack shifted closer, until his knees were just shy of touching hers. He would never intrude on her space, not ever, but she needed to know that he was there. ( _He_ needed to know that he was there.)  
  
“So when?” she asked quietly, her voice as impressively even as ever.  
  
“I'm not sure,” Jack answered dully, feeling his mouth run incredibly dry. His eyes were beginning to itch, so he adjusted his arms, digging his elbows into his thighs and shook away the annoying feeling, as well as few strands of stupid hair pushed down by the fabric of his hood.  
  
“So, we just... wait? Until Manny or Mother Nature decides that I don't need a Guardian anymore?”  
  
Jack bit his bottom lip hard. ( _That was the kicker, wasn't it? It was what Toothiana had said—that we were never meant to stick around forever. That they wouldn't_ need _us forever_.)  
  
“It's... not Manny's or Mother Nature's decision to make,” Jack said quietly. A ball was forming in his gut again, surging outward like it could break free at any moment. The funny thing was, of course, was that Jack never actually intended to tell her _this_ part—that, although he should have, he'd never expected her to already figure out so much on her own.  
  
That, out of everything, he'd still been able to keep _this_ most essential truth from her, in the end.  
  
“So... it's yours?” she whispered, more uncertain than ever. ( _She looked so damn small, even now, and so afraid, like she used to be—all the damn time, and—whose fucking right was it, to decide when the right time was for a child to grow up?)_  
  
Elsa stared up at him, so frightened and so brave, all at once.  
  
And he knew that it was time to tell her the truth.

“Actually,” Jack swallowed, just barely more than a whisper. He cleared his throat, gently, of his heart, and said, “It's yours.”

. * * * .

 


	40. - getting stronger -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/27/14_. Considering that this chapter (40/80) is supposed to be the halfway mark, I'm going to go ahead and guess that we're actually going to expect a bit more than 80 total chapters. :P Keeping it for now... but we'll see! As long as I can keep up this once-a-day/twice-a-day posting most of the time, I just might be able to make my goal of finishing this by the end of March. :)
> 
> Thanks again for all of the kudos, guys! Officially at 100 comments, huzzahhhh.
> 
> [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)!

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- getting stronger -_  
  
. * * * .

 

“I don't understand,” Elsa said quietly. Her eyes widened, large and round and no less fearful than before; Jack forced himself not to look away. “It's... _my_ decision? But how can that be?”  
  
_Hell, if I know._  
  
“It's the way it is,” Jack replied quietly. He gave a little shrug, mostly because the gesture felt familiar. (He felt both weighted down and lightheaded, like his mind was heavy, but the rest of him might float away.) “The only humans that can see us are the ones who believe in us.”  
  
“But I believe in you.”  
  
Jack smiled, small and grim. “One day... you might not,” he told her evenly, his practiced lines nearly perfect. Tooth would have been proud. “It's what happens when you grow up. You stop believing.”

“I won't,” Elsa said fervently, quiet and sincere. “Not ever.”  
  
There was a lump in his throat again. So stubborn. Like it never intended to go away.  
  
“Look... If there's any advice this Guardian can offer a Princess, Elsa,” Jack quietly began, “It's that it's a lot harder to break your promises if you never make them in the first place.”  
  
“I only make the promises I know I can keep,” she vowed quietly, undeterred, and Jack let out a bark of a laugh in spite of himself.

“Then you're already a lot smarter than I am,” was all he said, grinning wryly.  
  
She didn't return the smile.  
  
“Jack,” she whispered, suddenly—and he shifted forward, instantly; her voice had cracked. “I have to tell you something,” she breathed, sighing a shaky breath. Immediately, fear gripped him.

( _He could almost feel it, like long, slender fingers trailing over his shoulder—but no. He was imagining that._  
  
_That wasn't real._ )

Resisting the urge to suck in a deep, calming breath, Jack slowly ducked his head down, almost hesitantly, to get a better look at her face. “What is it?”  
  
“I... It's a few things, actually,” Elsa said quietly, and began fiddling with the fabric on her gloves. Elsa rarely fiddled.  
  
“Elsa,” Jack began, but the rest of the words got stuck in his throat.  
  
“I rose my voice today, at my parents,” she admitted, finally raising her eyes toward his. ( _Where did this come from? And what was that expression on her face? Shame, yes, and the ever-present fear, but—_ ) “My father tried to reach out to me, but I wouldn't let him... It's getting stronger.”  
  
Jack's mind stuttered ( _Defiance? Was that what it was?_ ) then full out crashed to a halt. Her words played over and over, and suddenly, it was all he could hear. _It's getting stronger_.  
  
“What is?” Jack breathed.  
  
Elsa swallowed thickly and whispered, “Everything.”  
  
“No, don't tell me what you tell your parents,” Jack urged her, looking more closely at her face. “Tell me what's actually wrong.”  
  
“I don't—it's not like—”  
  
“Elsa.”  
  
“I get too comfortable,” she admitted, in a rush. “I start to think—I _can_ control this, finally, and I start to let myself think that I don't _need_ to think about it, all the time, or watch where I step or... I actually considered not wearing my gloves yesterday, and as soon as I started remove one, I froze half the wall. The only reason I was able to contain it at _all_ , after that, was because I could hear Anna coming down the hallway again and I—I can't _do_ this, anymore.”  
  
Jack swallowed his words before they could come tumbling out; there was a lot he'd like to say, but most of it was probably best left for the other Guardians' ears, instead. Especially Bunny's, who never much cared what kind of foul language came out of Jack's mouth, no matter how long his rabbit ears were.

“Well... what triggered it?” he asked instead, trying to focus on what he _could_ fix. (Not things like overbearing fathers or delusions of protection. Not anything like that.) “You were able to control it for a while—that's a good sign, yeah? So what happened right before it broke free?”  
  
“I—nothing _happened_ , really, I just—“ Elsa cut herself, frustrated. Her little hands were balled into fists in her lap, like she was determined to ignore them. After a deep breath, or two, she pulled her shoulders back and said, “I... didn't sleep very well last night. Which is what I wanted to tell you.”  
  
Ever so slightly, Jack stiffened. A tiny sliver of foreboding crawled down his spine and Jack thought, _I've felt this thing before_.  
  
“You had a nightmare last night,” Jack whispered, barely stronger than a breath.  
  
“I did,” she agreed, shifting her gaze out the window. “But that's not the nightmare I was thinking about, before I nearly froze the door shut.”  
  
His eyes narrowed in confusion. He'd never heard about any of her nightmares, despite what Toothiana and Sandy would have liked to believe.  
  
“No?” Jack tilted his head to the side, trying to feign casual interest. At least, enough so he could pass for a decent Guardian. (Or a decent anything, for that matter.)  
  
It was a long moment before Elsa spoke again, and Jack's confusion turned to alarm.  
  
“Do you remember,” she began, still staring out the window. It was a lovely spring evening, and the town was alight with the glowing candles from many homes along the winding ways. He watched her eyes trace the patterns in the lights. “During the first year that I met you, the night that you woke me from a nightmare?”  
  
_Do I remember?_  
  
As it stood, there wasn't a single day that went by in which he didn't.  
  
“Your parents came in, right after,” is what Jack said instead, as he willed the pounding in his head to ease.  
  
“And then I asked you to stay,” she looked back at him, with her little girl braid and her old soul eyes. “I don't think I ever told you what I dreamt about.”  
  
Somehow, after a long, delicate moment, Jack managed to give his head a single shake.  
  
She stared at him, for just a second, but he felt just about ready to leap from his seat by the time Elsa shifted back to the window and said, “I'd had plenty of nightmares before, especially after the Accident. But this one was different,” she paused. “It was about you.”  
  
Jack stilled, completely.  
  
“Your... nightmare. Was about me?” he managed, then hastily cleared his throat. “What... what was—?”

“You were never real,” she answered simply, and turned to him, and the moment froze, locked in his memory, forever.  
  
“What?”  
  
Elsa swallowed hard. “My nightmare, from the night that you woke me, was that you weren't real. And it _felt_ real,” Elsa whispered, then braced herself with another deep breath. “You disappeared. I didn't see you for days, and then weeks... and then I started to grow older, and still, you didn't come. I was—I told my parents about you, because I was afraid that I'd done something to ruin it, or that you'd gotten lost, or that something happened to you—and they told me that you weren't real. That you were just a myth, some character from a storybook, and that I shouldn't worry because I could always just conjure you back in my imagination—because that's the only place you ever existed. And then I grew up, holding onto the belief that you would one day show, but... You never did. I don't remember everything, but I became Queen, and I began to wonder if I really had just made you up, and I'd spent all those years alone, waiting, for someone who never actually existed—and then somehow—they suddenly knew. Everything I'd been trying so hard to hide for so long— _they knew_.  
  
“I don't even really remember what was happening when I woke up," Elsa swallowed. "But it felt so real. Like I'd really always been alone.”  
  
“You're not alone,” Jack said, immediately.  
  
Elsa shifted her gaze down to her lap, and he knew that she was trying not to cry. (His own eyes burned, but this was never really about him, so.)  
  
“I almost didn't believe it, when I realized that it was actually you,” she said, so very quietly. “And when it finally hit me, that you were really there, I...”  
  
He had no idea what to say.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa swallowed, after a long moment. She looked to the little gloves in her lap. “I'd always imagined that there would come a time when you would become something of an old friend. That I just wouldn't see you as often,” she whispered. “I never realized that, eventually I might not... be able to see you at all," she whispered. "Jack, I don't know how I would ever be able to do this without you.”  
  
His lips curved upwards, a sad excuse for a smirk, and he cleared his throat and said, “I think 'old friend' is an interesting choice of words... don't you?”  
  
Elsa peered up at him— _with tears in her eyes, in disbelief and dismay_ —and, unable to take it any longer, Jack laughed and reached out his hand, and brushed his fingers once through her perfectly-trimmed bangs.  
  
“I'll tell you what, Your Highness,” he said softly, and this time, the smile on his lips was able to stick. “Like I told you once, a long time ago... you're stuck with me," he whispered. "I'll be here as long as you keep believing I will be.”  
  
Something passed between them, then... an understanding, maybe, that this was as close to another promise as they were ever going to get.  
  
Elsa's expression relaxed, just enough, and even if she didn't smile back, she nodded and whispered, _“_ Okay,” and he knew that they would be.

. * * * .


	41. - king of -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/28/14_. Maybe two or three today, in an attempt to motivate myself to keep writing! I have a queue of chapters lined up, but I definitely feel more compelled to keep going when I know that I have to create a brand new chapter to stick to my at-least-one-update-a-day schedule. :) We'll see how brave/ambitious I'm feeling, haha.
> 
> And here we are, onto the next stage of the story... Part IV. ;)

.

.

**( IV )**

.

.

.  
  
. * * * .  
  
 _\- king of -_  
  
 _(fools)_  
  
. * * * .  
.

.

.

.

.

.  
  
. * * * .  
  
Elsa's fourteenth birthday came and went,  
and for the first time in half as many years,  
Jack was not afraid.  
  
. * * * .

“ _Jack!_ If you're going to _insist_ on springing down from my canopy, the least you could do is warn me first!”  
  
“I could,” he blithely agreed, then flipped himself down from her bed hangings and landed cross-legged at the foot of her bed. She'd been reading peacefully before his little prank, and it looked like she'd really been enjoying the book too, given the strength of her impatient glare. “But that would be hardly any fun.”  
  
“Indeed,” she mused, a single brow arching high. She was fighting off a smirk, he could tell, and if he had any say in the matter—and he certainly _did_ —then she wouldn't be able to fight it for much longer.  
  
“Well, then,” Jack observed her with a squinting eye, as Elsa tried in vain to resume her reading. “Given the intensity of your cold shoulder, I would imagine that I just interrupted either a thorough dissection of the Southern Trading Agreements ooor... a _deeply_ interesting contemplation of some philosopher-or-other,” Jack went on, grinning impishly while Elsa rolled her eyes. “ _Ah_ —a fancy writer, then. So who is it this time?” Jack prodded, ducking down to get a closer look at the book's cover, but Elsa flipped it in her grasp, shielding it from his view with a look of mock-indignation. “Any of those big wigs from the Southern Isles? One of the books I brought you?”  
  
“From North, actually,” Elsa answered with a smile—one that was _just_ a bit too devious for his comfort, believe it or not.  
  
Jack frowned instantly. _“From..._ the North?” he asked, squinting to brace himself for an undesirable answer. A really, really annoying one. “Like... the _Northern_ Isles? Or something? Those exist here, right?”  
  
“No,” Elsa laughed, and finally turned the book so that he could see it properly. A leather-bound volume, old and worn, one that looked more like a journal than any published masterpiece, and Jack scowled. “From _North_. He stopped by a few days ago and gave it to me,” Elsa smiled in memory. “I'm not really sure why, but when he left, he was shouting and laughing about something called Christmas in July.”  
  
“Nutcase,” Jack whispered in awe. “Stark, raving mad,” he added through a mumble, eyes widening, and Elsa laughed, long and true.  
  
“Anyway, I've really been enjoying it... until _someone_ barged in, unannounced, and scared the daylights out of me.”  
  
“You're welcome,” Jack chirped, and then stilled, stricken, and demanded, “Wait. Elsa. You can't—you can't honestly tell me that you're reading his garbage.”  
  
“It's actually quite interesting,” Elsa proclaimed, then opened to her current page. Great. Now her attention was back on the book, instead of him. Jack's eyes rolled so hard in his head that they nearly fell out, but he still scooted himself over to her side and looked on as she pointed, his chin held aloft in one very irritated hand. “It goes into great depth regarding his life before becoming a Guardian... I must admit, it's not all that difficult to believe that he was quite the ruffian, and a daredevil swordsman, as well. The saga you once gave me never revealed _this_ much detail of his history, of course—I doubt much of this would be very suitable for children, as his prowess with weaponry made him quite the notorious outlaw.”  
  
“So he can wave a big flashy knife,” Jack intoned into his palm. “Does it mention how half the time all he ends up doing anymore is almost accidentally running somebody through with it?”  
  
Elsa laughed again, though this time Jack didn't deign to join her. When he glanced down to the marks on the pages, he saw that it was indeed hand-written, and definitely not in English.  
  
“What language is that?” he asked curiously, before he could remember that he didn't actually care, and that he didn't actually want to talk about North at all.  
  
“His native language, in what I would assume is a much older dialect than the way he might speak it now,” Elsa answered, tilting her head thoughtfully to the side. “He told me that its roots have some similarities to those of the Old Languages in my world... but he magicked it, anyway, so that I could read without having to translate it for myself. You can't understand it?” Elsa asked curiously, peering at him from the side.  
  
Jack huffed a scoff and twisted away, flopping back onto the length of her quilt, so he wouldn't have to look at the pages. “Couldn't, even if I wanted to.”  
  
“You know... it's not _just_ about his life before Guardianship,” Elsa began slowly, and Jack squinted up at her, wary. “There is a great deal of talk on the power of Wonder, and how it guided him to his destiny.”  
  
“Yeah. Wonder,” Jack huffed, letting his eyes drift shut. He laced his fingers behind his head as a pillow, and hoped that Elsa would eventually get tired of the book, or at least take the hint, and ask to practice some magic with him. “Wonderful.”  
  
“There's a lot of talk about centers, too.”  
  
Jack's eyes snapped open.

“What?” he blurted, before he could school his features properly.   
  
“There's a whole chapter dedicated to the concept, though I've only just started it,” Elsa explained, then casually turned to glance at the pages spread open in her lap. Jack blinked, then threw himself up onto one elbow, which dug deep into the mattress.  
  
“You already started reading about them?” he asked, and wondered why the hell that would make him nervous; he tried to clear his throat quietly, and sort of managed it, but if Elsa heard then she wasn't making much note of it. He hoped.

"Hmm,” she answered absently, and Jack's frown turned sour. “Yes, just a bit. It seems kind of sad, though, doesn't it, to have your entire being, your whole life's purpose, summed up into a single word? We're so much more complex than that."  
  
“Well,” Jack said quickly, tossing out a hand to the side; funny, how defensive he could get about something he'd never really cared to discuss before. “It's not _just_ that. It's... It's more than that,” he finished in adequately, and shifted closer, curving his torso to better face her.  
  
“Oh?” Elsa breathed, gingerly flipping a page. Jack's scowl deepened; he knew now, that this had been a trap. If he were to keep talking, he would only be falling into it, doing exactly as Elsa wanted.  
  
 _Dammit_ .  
  
“ Like—Hope is more than just hope, all right?” he argued, a tad defensively, and prayed that Bunny would never know of this conversation, not ever. “I don't know how to explain it—it's waiting, yeah, and patience, but it's—it's like—it's about seeking out the things that you want, and actually working hard for what you're looking for.”  
  
“You think so?” Elsa asked quietly, and when he looked up at her, she was leaning forward with genuine interest, and _dammit_ , now he was definitely stuck on the topic. “I wonder if North mentions something similar,” she mused, and then flipped a few pages, as if searching for that very passage.  
  
“And Wonder isn't just about getting all starry-eyed,” Jack added, perhaps a bit harshly. Elsa's eyes returned to his, instead of North's messy handwriting. “Like... it's about the appreciation of life and enjoying the gifts that you've been given,” he explained, inexplicably warming up to the discussion. It probably didn't hurt, of course, that Elsa had closed North's gift entirely, and had set it aside to listen to Jack with her undivided attention, like she used to. “It's gratitude,” Jack continued, letting his mind mull it over more seriously than he ever had before. “I guess Wonder, out of anything, is asking questions about life without caring if you get all the answers. I don't know. Maybe North can explain it better—actually, I know he can—but the centers are our way of protecting the essence of childhood, but they're also lessons. They're not just _words_ , you know? The centers are our gifts, I guess. They're important tools for humans to carry with them through life, after we can no longer reach them."  
  
It took him a moment to realize that she was staring at him.  
  
“What?” he asked, slightly alarmed by the quirk of her smile.  
  
“You should write your own book, Jack,” she teased, warmly.   
  
"Oh yeah," Jack laughed a scoff, and rolled his head back to stare accusingly at the underside of the canopy. “All this talk of Hope and Wonder is really going to—”   
  
"What's your center?"   
  
His elbow nearly slipped along the mattress. "What?" he asked, snapping his head back into place, feeling his stomach flip.   
  
Elsa watched him calmly, crossing her legs and resting her elbows over the fabric of her long skirts over her thighs, much like he often did. "What's yours?"   
  
To his horror, Jack was suddenly, unmistakably, inexplicably embarrassed.

“You already know mine,” he accused lightly, playing it off as a joke. He generally took a great deal of pride in what he guarded—a _great_ deal, considering that it was substantially less boring, and didn't involve rotting eggs—but after talking about the others'... his center sounded pretty damn trivial.  
  
“Indeed,” she whispered, her smile still suspiciously warm. “But you've yet to explain _your_ center, the way you spoke of Hope and Wonder.”

"What do you _think_ it's about?" he asked slowly, twisting his face in comedic speculation, in an attempt to sound clever, and to also formulate his response; he didn't know what the hell his center was supposed to be about, besides what it'd always been. Sure, he'd been able to assuage a few minor fears over the years, and provide a few helpful distractions along the way, but seriously—the Guardian of _Fun_ ?  
  
( _Having a rough life? Here, have a snowball.  
  
Great _ .)   
  
But his plan seemed to be working, apparently, because Elsa was considering him curiously, watching his face. He watched the way she looked at him, strangely nervous. He didn't know what the hell she was going to say.   
  
"How about... mischief?" she suggested, waiting intently for his approval.   
  
In spite of himself, Jack bit back a grin. “Close,” he allowed, and if his non-smile was a bit cheeky, then so what?  
  
"Charm?" she added next, with a knowing tilt to her head, and a lopsided smile slipped onto his face, until he could control it. Honestly, it felt like his face was about as manageable as a plate of jelly today.  
  
But q uickly, he recovered. "Not quite," he admitted regretfully, rather beginning to enjoy the game. He liked the sound of that last one a lot more than he probably should have.   
  
"Foolishness."   
  
Jack frowned, instantly.   
  
"Goodness, I'm only kidding!"   
  
"Yeah, but you're also not," Jack pointed out, raising his free hand to wag an accusing finger. "I can tell. You hide it well, but your royal disdain is clear to me, your highness." Elsa laughed, thus unable to deny it, so Jack continued on, before she managed to find the chance. “And I'll have you know that foolishness is a very complicated double-edged sword,” he argued, and tried not to get too hung up on the accidental allusion to North, yet again. “Foolishness means having room to grow, and having more to learn. Everyone is a fool, when you think about it."   
  
Once the laugher had subsided well enough for speech, Elsa removed her gloved fingers from her lips and conceded, "You make your case well, King of Fools."  
  
Jack blew a quick breath of snow to swipe at her, but she only laughed harder. ( _All right. Time to change the subject._ ) “Really? You couldn't think of anything else for my center?”   
  
"As much as the knowledge might destroy you, Jack, I figured out the deeper secrets of your center a long time ago... I just never believed you to be all that fun, anyway.”   
  
“Oh, yeah?” he tried to sound intimidating, but his laugh sort of ruined it. "This laughter of yours would argue otherwise."  
  
“Would you believe that I am laughing _at_ you, Jack, and not with you?”  
  
“Not a polar ice caps' chance.”  
  
“Ah, well,” she hummed, almost distractedly, and he peered up at her in confusion. “It was worth a shot, I suppose.”  
  
And then Jack was eating snow, coughing up an exploded snowball, and this time, she was definitely laughing at him. 

. * * * .  
  
Payback occurred eventually, though it may have taken an embarrassing number of snowballs to the face to accomplish.  
It was totally worth it though, because ultimately Elsa forgot all about North's journal, and spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out with him.  
  
She gave him quite the exasperated smile when he left, no doubt for the mess his final snow deluge had made of her hair,  
and he laughed to himself as she yanked it all out to start all over, and then escaped into the wind before she could change her mind about their little truce.

And he wasn't really all that afraid anymore,  
but it was still something to get used to, seeing her hair styled so much like her mother's.  
  
. * * * .

 


	42. - barrels of -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/28/14_. Yep. I'm going for it. All three today! I think... I really want to have this story done before springtime, and I reeeeaally think it's going to end up being more than 80 chapters (maybe 100?), and if I just keep banging these out then MAYBE I WILL ACHIEVE MY GOAL, I don't know.
> 
> SO HERE'S ANOTHER ONE, and probably one of my little favorites, to be honest.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _(a few hundred)  
  
\- barrels of -_  
  
                           _(vodka)_  
  
. * * * .

 

Or, five really annoying things that came with having Guardians for a family,  
that nobody really told you about when you signed up for it in the friggin' first place.

1\. Jack often made it a point of informing Bunny that if he had known _before_ taking his oath that he would be expected to partake in an annual Easter hunt, he would have chosen another three centuries or so of isolation, no question, no hesitation; to this day, Jack still wasn't entirely sure he was actually kidding about that.

2\. And speaking of the really irritating Kangaroo, Bunnymund insisted that if Elsa hadn't stopped believing in him by now, then there was a good chance that— _somehow_ —she might not ever, but Jack didn't buy it; that was sort of the problem with having a working relationship with the Guardian of Hope. It was his job to say stuff like that.  
  
3\. Guardians didn't dream so much as they daydreamed, and sharing such a close mental link to the master of all things dreamlike could sometimes, occasionally, lead to some potentially embarrassing situations. (Just because he and Sandy were talking again didn't mean he wanted to talk about the rather distracting nature of his most recent fantasies, which usually included a certain pair of hands and a certain head of dark hair, braided and ornately twisted beneath a regal crown.)  
  
4\. Tooth had a thing for touching his mouth, and really, he tried to be patient, but he could only tolerate it for so long before his jaw nearly gave out on him. (He could only say _ahhhhhh_ for so long, you know, and sometimes—actually, a lot of times—she would forget almost everything she knew about personal space, and she had a rather difficult time remembering it around him and his teeth, as it was.)  
  
5\. Never again, in this afterlife or any other, did Jack want to re-experience one of the North Pole's celebrations on the day after Christmas—especially when the parties usually included a few hundred barrels of vodka. Seriously, despite Toothiana and Sandy being suspiciously tight-lipped on the matter—or just Tooth, considering, and _anyway_ —Jack was quite sure that Bunny and North were never going to let him live it down; the fact that he'd already died, of course, apparently did not make a difference on that front. (Yeah, sure, elephants never forgot, or however the saying went, but apparently neither did centuries-old, toy-making scoundrels and near-extinct Pooka-rabbit creatures, or whatever the hell Bunnymund was, and okay, whatever, he'd just have to get them back eventually.) Jack wasn't sure that he would actually go so far as to freeze over another Easter, but he sure as hell thought about it, and he didn't know where to even start with North. (Elsa would probably have some ideas—he would have to consult with her, even if he would never mention the actual reason for his strike of vengeance, _ever_ , under any circumstances.) One of these years, Jack vowed, he would dig up enough dirt on the two of them and even the odds.

Until then, he would be sure to very carefully avoid any and all offers of vodka.  
  
. * * * .

 


	43. - manhandled it -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/28/14_. Last one for the day!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- manhandled it -_  
  
. * * * .

 

It was sometime during the autumn of Elsa's fourteenth year that Jack was confronted by the inevitable, mortifying truth.  
  
“You have _thing_ for her _mother_!” Toothiana announced into the forest, and _thank the goddamn glaciers_ that Bunny had already hopped off, or else he would never have heard the end of this.  
  
“What are you shouting about?” Jack hissed, because denial was usually the easiest stalling trick, if not the most effective. “I don't have a _thing_ for anybody!”  
  
“Jack Frost,” Toothiana smiled in awe, eyes coming to light as, apparently, the truth proceeded to scribble itself all over his face. “You _do..._ ”  
  
“Do _what_ , Tooth?” he demanded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He wanted to hide in his hood, too, but knew that it would only give her more evidence. _Oh, shit,_ Jack realized. She had evidence?  
  
“Oh my goodness, Jack—you get so flustered!” she smiled, valiantly trying to hold back her giggles, though Jack couldn't give her much credit. Sandy was still standing off to the side awkwardly, staring at his toes. Jack's eyes snapped to his form, suspiciously. “It's like with Anna all over again—only worse! You are smitten with the _Queen_ .”  
  
“Thanks a lot, Sandy,” Jack bit out, crossing his arms and trying not to pout too pathetically. (Could one die of embarrassment if, technically speaking, they'd already managed the whole dying thing?)  
  
Suddenly, a barrage of mystical sand-shapes flew before Jack's eyes, not making any sense at all, although ultimately Jack was able to decipher an apology, and something that suspiciously looked like, _She manhandled it out of me!_

But, then again, he could have easily been mistaken.

“Jack, we are only teasing because— _oh_ , all right, Sandy— _I_ am only teasing because you've been keeping it such a secret, and it's clear that you've got a crush on her.”  
  
“I do _not_ have a _crush_ on anybody.”  
  
“Would you prefer the term infatuation?”  
  
Jack sent his frostiest glare, but Toothiana only laughed and Sandy let out a reluctant chuckle and the next thing he knew, Tooth was placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Honestly, Jack—it's nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to all of us, every once in a while.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jack muttered doubtfully, arms still crossed.  
  
“So... _please_ tell us,” Tooth smiled, equal parts light teasing and genuine curiosity. The whole comforting thing was apparently over with. “Is it her eyes?” she teased. “Her smile? She _does_ have beautiful teeth, I'll give you that!”  
  
“ _Tooth_!”  
  
“Is it her demeanor? Do you have a thing for brunettes?”  
  
 _Or older women?_ asked a very sly Sandy, which had Jack cracking up in spite of himself, especially when Tooth unexpectedly sent him a disapproving glare. Sandy shrugged hastily, almost apologetically, which meant that Jack's laughter took some additional time to subside.  
  
“ _Ugh_ , frostbite,” Jack muttered finally, wiping a hand over his eyes in disbelief; they were insane, all of them.  
  
“Does this mean you admit it?” Tooth asked eagerly.  
  
“You mean, do I admit that I'm attracted to the one woman I've ever actually been able to stick around long enough to even get a good look at? Never mind the fact that I'm technically the only one who can do any sort of looking, considering she'll never be able to see me and, _ha—_ ” Jack scoffed, sliding his hand down his face, onto his neck. “Yeah... there's the makings of a healthy attraction, right there.”  
  
When he realized that neither of his fellow Guardians had offered up any sort of comment, he turned to look at them each in turn, confused, for Sandy and Toothiana seemed surprised by his words. “What?” he asked, alarmed.  
  
“Ah... nothing,” Toothiana said quietly, looking a little stunned. “We just... didn't expect you to be so forthcoming about it. We're... happy to listen, of course, but...”  
  
Jack's eyes narrowed, just marginally, surprised by the sudden swell of concern leaping into his throat. Sandy kept shooting uncertain glances between the two of them, but Jack didn't really know what to make of that either.  
  
“Sorry to pry, Jack,” Toothiana winced sympathetically, and then gave a light, nervous laugh to clear the air. “We promise that from now on, the only crushes we'll mention are the ones that _you_ bring up first.”  
  
“Oh, good,” Jack grinned, admittedly still a little uncomfortable. “Because you know how many of _those_ I've had over the last three hundred years or so.”  
  
They laughed right along with him, considerably in a lighter mood, and Jack found that he was easily able to enjoy the rest of their little gathering, their rare moment of rest. Still, it was a little strange, the way Sandy kept sneaking pensive glances at him, or the way Toothiana excused herself early, claiming that the air traffic over Southeast Asia was expecting unusually fierce winds and that she'd best be going before the storms hit.  
  
Frowning in confusion, he asked Sandy if Tooth was all right, just before they, too, parted ways.  
  
As usual, Sandy didn't really say all that much.

. * * * .


	44. - ain't people -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/1/14_. Happy March, everyone! Two for today! :)

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- ain't people -_   
  
. * * * .

“Hey—do you know how Tooth's search for a new palace is going?”  
  
“Palace?” Bunny rounded on him, one long ear quirking just slightly higher than the other. “Last I heard, we were search'n after a cave.”

“A cave?” Jack nearly grimaced, and resisted the urge to twirl his staff in his fingers; he gripped it tighter, holding it at his side. “What would she want a cave for?”  
  
“I dunno—what would she want another palace for?” Bunny scoffed, raising a thick brow high. (Or at least Jack thought he was... sort of hard to tell, what with all that fur.) Either way, the condescension wasn't appreciated.  
  
“Wouldn't she want something... I don't know,” Jack squinted, aiming for tact. “Nicer?”  
  
“Well, she ain't gotta live there,” Bunnymund answered distractedly, inspecting the grooves dug deep into his warren's wall. Endless stone and moss, earthy and fresh; it was a little strange, smelling so much springtime after laying down fresh blizzards of snow in most of the Northern Hemisphere all week. A blue pebble was lodged between two planes of stone and, after a thorough investigation from sharp green eyes, was apparently deemed unsatisfactory; Jack watched with mild surprise as it was tossed into the bubbling brook not more than a moment later.  
  
“Yeah, but...” Jack mumbled, distracted, then blinked himself to the present and pressed, “Isn't it for the memories?”  
  
Suddenly, Bunny stilled; thinking that he'd found another unwanted pebble, Jack was thusly surprised when Bunnymund slowly turned towards him, the most curious expression on his face.   
  
“There a reason you so worried 'bout this, Jack?” he asked quietly. His tone left a strange sort of echo in Jack's brain.  
  
“What?” Jack forced a laugh to cover his embarrassment. “I'm allowed to be concerned about you guys, aren't I?” he quipped, leaning lazily upon his staff. (It was one thing to admit this sort of stuff to himself—it was another thing, entirely, to be called out on it, out of the blue. And by the Kangaroo, no less.)

Bunny squinted at him in disbelief, and ventured, “You worried 'bout your own memories, then?”  
  
 _Well—now that you mention it_ , Jack frowned, though it honestly hadn't occurred to him, until just then. _But thanks for the faith, buddy. Real nice_.  
  
“Don't be,” Bunny answered, turning back to face the mossy wall before Jack had a chance to defend himself. He was sure that Bunny thought he was being comforting, in his own short, gruff sort of way, when he rolled a small red pebble between his fingers and said, “Tooth takes care 'a ours, all right—safest vault in all the realms. She's even got Manny's in there, from before he was Manny.”  
  
“She's got—she's got _whose_?”  
  
“Mother Nature's, too,” Bunny added softly, almost a whisper, but Jack's mind was still reeling.

“Hold on a minute,” he demanded, and caught his staff mid-swing. Hastily, he jerked himself upright, bringing his staff back into check—

“Why don't you just ask Tooth about it, yourself?” Bunny asked pointedly, eyeing Jack beneath a thick, slanted brow. “In fact—what in the blazes are you in here for, anyhow?”

“What, afraid I'm going to step on some daisies?” Jack grinned, unable to resist a snipe.  
  
“No more than I am afraid of you stubbing a toe on a rock.”  
  
“And you wonder why I don't visit you more often,” Jack drawled flatly.  
  
“But seriously,” Bunnymund side-glanced him, flicking his fingers impatiently. “Get. Go bother Toothiana, or someone.”  
  
“I can't. She's busy.”  
  
“We're _all_ busy.”  
  
“Yeah, well—she's busier than all of us,” Jack muttered, and this time, he _did_ kick at a pebble on the ground. He didn't really feel it, and felt strangely disappointed. “The rest of us combined, probably.”  
  
“So?” Bunny muttered, impatience wearing thin. His careful scratching at the moss was becoming louder. “Never stopped you before.”  
  
“She means it, though,” Jack sighed a groan, twirling aimlessly around his staff. “She's _really_ busy. Like—she asked me not to drop in for a while, busy.”  
  
Bunny paused. Twisting his furry head back around to face him over his shoulder, Jack saw another uneasy look crawl into his eyes. “Huh,” Bunnymund muttered vaguely. A few, long moments passed, and Bunny was looking decidedly more uncomfortable with each one. “That busy, huh?”  
  
Jack scowled. He wasn't exactly helping.  
  
“You're not exactly helping, man,” Jack huffed.   
  
“I could take offense to that, y'know,” Bunny retorted, recovering quickly; Jack rolled his eyes but noticed, when his eyes returned to his partner, that Bunny was making it a point of closely inspecting the etchings on the wall. Possibly even more closely than before. “And if help is what y'came for, shoulda asked; I thought you were practice'n that.”  
  
His frown only deepened. ( _Wonderful._ Had Tooth told all the other Guardians about that? _Ugh_.)  
  
“Fine,” Jack sighed, shaking off the itch of frustration. “What should I be doing about Tooth's new palace? Or cave, or—whatever.”  
  
“Nothin'. An' I'm pretty sure it was actually a _cloud_... Anyways, you should... You should still go bother Toothiana, yeah? You know how people are—sayin' they don't want company, when they really do.”  
  
Jack frowned. He thought of himself and three hundred years of loneliness, staunchly turning down a position of Guardianship. He thought of Elsa and her desperate plea for her sister, only four years before.   
  
( _I don't..._ mind _being alone._ )  
  
“So people like you, then?” Jack taunted, plastering a smirk over the heaviness of his jaw.

“For the last time, I ain't _people._ And if anyone can handle your lazy-daisy frost circles, it's her. Now get.”  
  
Jack Frost rolled his eyes, but this time the smile was mostly genuine. “Aye-aye, Hope-meister,” he mock-saluted with flourish. “Pleasure, as always.”  
  
And with a spin of the wind he was off like a rocket. He whooped and curled through the air as he zoomed into the entrance to one of the dark tunnels, without any care as to where it might actually lead him.

. * * * .  
  
For the record, he ended up shooting out of the tunnel by landing somewhere in the Peruvian rain forest,   
which caught a few of the locals by quite a bit of surprise.  
  
And despite what he'd told Bunny, he didn't actually go to see Tooth, afterwards;  
he wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling that she wasn't really in the mood to see him.  
  
. * * * .

 


	45. - cover your -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/1/14_. Last one of the day!
> 
> By the way, if you think you'd enjoy reading another Jack Frost-centric piece by me, and are interested in my interpretation of what (after)life could have been like for Jack _before_ he became a Guardian, go ahead and check out my one-shot, "[After Dark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/713993)." Rated M for voyeurism and sexual themes.
> 
>   
>  \-------------------------------------------  
>  _And Jack learned the hard way that after dark,_  
>  _all of the world's secrets came out, mortals' and non-guardians' alike._
> 
>   
>  \-------------------------------------------  
> Just in case! ;)  
> 

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- cover your -_  
  
. * * * .

 

“Hey,” said Jack softly, as his eyes narrowed curiously in her direction.  
  
He was laid out on the rug, craning his neck upwards—but he knew what he saw.  
  
“Wait a minute...”

Elsa stilled, curled up in one of the extravagant armchairs against the wall. A book laid open in her lap—though admittedly, it had been some time since Elsa's attention had actually lingered on the page long enough for her to actually read it—and her calves hung over the armrest, leggings crossed at the ankles. A small shoe was dangling from one foot and, given the owner of the shoe in question, Jack thought this was borderline hilarious.

Elsa tilted her head curiously, and waited.

“Laugh again,” he directed, lifting himself upwards to lean just a little bit closer. Elsa's face shifted, immediately; one brow rose high, one slanted down, and a slight pursing of the lips closed off the rest of her expression. “ _No_ —come on, that's not a laugh.”

“You can't just tell somebody to laugh, Jack,” she told him mildly.

A slow smirk spread over his lips.  
  
( _Wanna bet?_ )

“Is that an invitation to make you?” he replied, leaning back into the support of his hand, propping his head up with the cradle of his palm. (When it came to laughter, he was the _master—_ as far as he was concerned—and if it was Elsa's, then he was very, _very_ concerned.)  
  
He meant business.  
  
And Fun.  
  
One or the other, or both, what the hell ever, Elsa, come on, just _laugh._

Elsa narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, while a smirk curled her lips. “Why do I get the feeling you're up to something?” she accused.

“Because you always see the worst in me,” he immediately replied, milking a scowl, and wondered if—one of these days—she might actually be tempted to toss her shoe at him.

“I refuse to laugh under someone's else's _command_ ,” Elsa replied reasonably. It did her little good, though, for Jack hadn't been feeling all that reasonable today to begin with.  
  
“Well, not all of us can be royalty,” he quipped good-naturedly and, with a meager bow of his head from his resting place on the rug, formally added, “Your highness.”  
  
It didn't exactly get her to laugh, but it was close enough—and Jack got what he wanted, anyway.  
  
“You cover your mouth when you laugh,” Jack observed, peering at her more closely. Elsa snatched her hand away from her lips, surprised, and examined it curiously before her. “Have you always done that?”  
  
“I don't know,” she mused, flexing her fingers. “Have I?” She looked as surprised as he felt.  
  
“Forget frost bunnies,” Jack said suddenly, peering up at her from below with renewed determination. “Our new goal is to get you to laugh without doing _that_.”  
  
“ _That_ is my new goal?” Elsa repeated, eyes wide, bemused.  
  
“The highest priority.”  
  
Elsa blinked, highly amused and more than a little shocked; his voice had been the gravest of grave, after all. Finally, after a funny moment of pondering, Elsa peered down at him skeptically and said, “You have the strangest priorities.”  
  
Jack absently thought of the long-off winter solstice—which he had barely begun to plan for—and how he hadn't done a _thing_ to annoy Bunnymund all autumn—one measly trip to his underground warren, aside—and how he was expected at the North Pole in a matter of hours to check in, and how, instead of leaving half an hour ago, as he'd intended, he'd instead committed himself to watching her ballet flat dangle precariously from her stocking-covered toes, and he thought—  
  
She was probably right.

. * * * .


	46. - space between -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/2/14_. Just a quick one for today! I was super busy, so I didn't have much time. :P
> 
> Here is the next set of the 1sentence challenge! You can find the Alpha set--and many others!--over at LiveJournal. They're so much fun and can be a lot harder than you think, too. <3 <3
> 
> Also, friendly reminder that this story's rating was increased to Mature. ;)

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- space between -_  
  
. * * * .

 **#11 – Name**  
It was better this way, for everyone's sake, that _Queen_ was all he ever knew her by.

 **#12 – Sensual  
** High in the dark treetops, just before the rise of dawn— _in the space between duty and freedom, when all the world slept on, and the Man in the Moon disappeared behind gentle hues of pink and orange_ — a sigh escaped him, soft and unexpected, and curled itself into the chill of the morning air; his head dropped back against the bark, and when his foot slipped from its hold and fell, dangling from the thick branch, he was already too far gone to notice.

 **#13 – Death**  
Michigan Girl apparently became California Girl, or so he overheard from her little brother, who was telling his friends about her move to college, and pretending not to miss her.

 **#14 – Sex  
** Jack Frost once, on a whim, entered the castle through the southern wing, thinking that he'd surprise Elsa by sneaking through the servants' quarters up to her bedroom, and entering through her bedroom door like a proper guest; by pure, unfortunate coincidence, he happened upon the groundskeeper and their governess—fresh from etiquette lessons with Anna, no doubt—taking advantage of the deserted broom closet not far from Jack's point of entry, and _that_ , he decided, was the last time he would ever try to act like a gentleman.

 **#15 – Touch**  
Elsa never moved herself any closer to where he sat himself beside her, but she also never moved any farther away.  
  
 **#16 – Weakness**  
“Oh, this is interesting, Jack—it says here, in North's journal that— _or..._ maybe I can tell you some other time, then, when you don't look quite so... murderous.”

 **#17 – Tears**  
No matter what he tried, Jack couldn't seem to get Elsa to stop holding back her laughter, and he tried _plenty_ —(glaring his most fearsome and pointed glares, creating tally charts to note each and every incident, and, on even one occasion, he'd actually resorted to holding back the wrist with which she'd intended to do the holding back) and seriously, practically _everything—_ but the day Jack accidentally slammed himself into the crystal-clear glass of her closed window, Elsa laughed so hard, she practically cried; not exactly the victory he'd had in mind, but probably a lot more satisfying, if not more painful, in the end.  
  
 **#18 – Speed**  
 _Once_ , Jack was not as nimble as the fairy tales suggested, and a certain young Princess with twin braids _may or may not have_ spotted a flash of silvery hair as it flew past—which then proceeded to hide in the snow-covered branches outside her window, like a moron, for an hour.  
  
 **#19 – Wind**  
“I like to pretend that, when I whisper out your name at night from the balcony—you can hear me.”  
  
 **#20 – Freedom**  
And sometimes, if he lingered outside her window, before she saw him arrive— _out of sight, for just long enough_ —he could still hear Elsa sing.

. * * * .

 


	47. - a bilberry -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/3/14_. Remember when I said I wasn't going to write Jelsa? 
> 
> Ha! Ha ha, ha, ha... 
> 
>  
> 
> ....... ha.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- a bilberry -_  
  
. * * * .

“Hey—what are these?”  
  
“They're bilberries, from the mountain forests. They're picked in late August when they're ripest, and then most of the batches are frozen for special occasions later in the year... Anna must have asked for some, I suppose. Anyway, Olga brought a sample up this morning and promised to make the tarts that I used to love so much.”  
  
“Don't you still love them?”  
  
“Well—yes, I suppose, but...”  
  
“Hey. Open your mouth.”  
  
“I... beg your pardon?”  
  
“I'll toss a berry to you, and you'll catch it in your mouth.”  
  
“I think not.”

“Elsa, come on—it'll be easy, just like catching snowflakes.”  
  
“Yes, except I know for a fact that _someone_ likes to use his command over frost to his _advantage,_ in that game.”  
  
“Are you denying ever having done the same?”  
  
“I believe I am denying having any manipulative powers over bilberries.”  
  
“Today is as good a day as any to develop some, then.”  
  
“I would really rather not waste them.”  
  
“Who said they would go to waste? This will make it more fun.”  
  
“Berries are _food_. Sustenance. They're not meant to be fun.”  
  
“You obviously have not been eating enough chocolate lately. And they are called _bil_ berries. You can't get any more fun than that.”  
  
“Well, in that case, you are welcome to try it yourself. I'm sure it will keep you entertained.”  
  
“I think it will. Watch... See? Easy. Just... toss it up... like this, _aaaaand_ —voila. Perfect.”  
  
“Congratulations. Your mouth is a veritable picnic basket.”  
  
“Here—if you won't try it yourself, try it with me, at least. Toss it up and _I'll_ catch it, and then you can try.”  
  
“But you were doing so well on your own.”  
  
“Yes, but I could just as easily miscalculate a toss and poke myself in the eye, and then where would I be?”  
  
“How do you know I wouldn't do the same?”  
  
“Because you have impeccable aim.”  
  
“I never said it would be an accident.”  
  
“Elsa, _come on—_ please? Just once? Actually—two times. I would be happy with two times, only. Just give a try? And I won't be mad, even if you do bop me in the eye with a bilberry.”  
  
“I have seen you in many different states, Jack Frost, but angry has never been one of them. I would be very disappointed, indeed, if a bilberry to the face was all it took to summon your anger.”  
  
“So you'll try it, then?”  
  
“You are not going to let this go, are you?”  
  
“I would be willing to reconsider, if you would let me hear you sing.”  
  
“Fine. Pass the bowl.”

. * * * .  
  
Jack tried not to let himself be too disappointed. He'd gotten what he wanted, after all, and Elsa was a terrific shot.  
After some additional coaxing—' _coaxing,_ ' of course, was a loose term—Elsa was eventually persuaded to join in.   
  
(He had a sneaking suspicion that she was freezing them mid-air, before they landed perfectly in her open her mouth but,  
not wanting to risk getting caught, himself, he decided not to call her out on her resourcefulness.)  
  
They'd eaten the entire bowl of berries before noon, and Jack only took a single bilberry to the eye.  
(He suspected that it was no accident.)  
  
. * * * .

 


	48. - dumb questions -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/5/14_. Hey, all! I didn't post any chapters yesterday because this one was a bit trickier, and I wanted to make sure that I was really satisfied with it before I posted it. (Also, I may or may not have been crying with dread over the prospect of reading a sure-to-be-intensely-painful chapter update for another of my favorite WIP fanfictions, but ANYWAY.) Overall, I'm rather pleased with this current update, and I hope you will be, too!
> 
> Friendly reminder that this fic is entirely the fault of Rina, who somehow managed to persuade me to write Jelsa, don't ask me how, because I DON'T KNOW.
> 
> This fic is definitely—DEFINITELY—gonna be longer than 80 chapters. I'm hoping for somewhere around 100 at this point, but we'll have to see. D:

. * * * .  
  
 _\- dumb questions -_

. * * * .

“Do you think she hates me?” Elsa whispered.  
  
Jack actually almost fell over; a nearly impossible feat from his seat on the rug—or so he'd thought. The force of his shock actually rendered him speechless.

But not for long.  
  
“That's ridiculous,” Jack frowned.He punctuated his words with a meaningful poke to her shoulder. “It's not like you to ask dumb questions.”

Her responding glare was impressively severe. Normally, he'd be running for the hills, but this time he stood his ground. (Or sat his ground. Whichever.) He crossed his arms and determinedly shifted himself so that he was facing her more fully, so it was harder for her to avoid looking at him. Her back was literally against the wall, so there was that, at least.  
  
“On what grounds?” Elsa demanded indignantly, brow arching high. If Elsa were the type to cross her arms, he bet that's what she would have been doing; instead, Elsa's hands tensed in her lap, almost imperceptibly, and her shoulders stiffened against the short stretch of wall beneath her window. She waited for an answer, and Jack's hand spun through the air, uselessly.

“Because she—she _doesn't_ —” Jack fumbled, his words always so far behind his emotions, struggling to catch up. His throat was beginning to feel thick with them. “Anna doesn't—”  
  
— _hate you._

“Where is this coming from, anyway?” he demanded quickly, before his stomach could flip completely.  
  
“Why does it have to come from _anywhere_?” she retorted fiercely, eyes flashing bright through the darkness, leaving Jack thoroughly gobsmacked. “This is almost eight years in the making. I should think the source of my concerns would be understandable, if not obvious.”

For a moment, he couldn't say anything. Elsa never talked to him this way.

She never spoke to _anyone_ this way.  
  
“Elsa—” he stuttered, eyes still a little too wide. “I didn't mean—I didn't... I'm sorry,” he managed, astounded.  
  
For a long moment, they stared at one another; Elsa, stiff and appraising, and he, tense and thoroughly, utterly shocked. There was something else that he should say—and probably something different that he _should_ have said, something different than what he _had—_ but hell if he could figure out what it was.

( _And... vaguely,_ _Jack wondered if this might be what it felt like, for Tooth._  
  
 _He thought of Sandy, too, and North and Bunny, but especially of Tooth, through all his endless lashing._  
 _He'd sort of known for a while now, that he was being a poor friend all around..._  
 _But maybe he'd been a poor friend in more ways than one._

 _In ways he hadn't even realized._ )

  
He watched Elsa soften slowly, the way sunlight melted a world of snow, and soon her eyes deepened with color, her shoulders sagging with the absence of all that useless strain. She looked very tired, and maybe even a little ill.

“I'm sorry,” Elsa said quietly, staring at the stretch of rug between them. “That wasn't exactly fair of me.”  
  
Jack didn't even know where to begin.  
  
“Elsa... what's going on?”  
  
Elsa swallowed gently, and lifted her eyes, and Jack prepared himself for what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation.  
  
“I had a discussion with my father this morning,” Elsa began, and already, Jack was feeling the room start to slowly shift around him. It was miniscule, just slightly off, but enough to leave his stomach churning. She looked up at him from under her bangs, and for the life of him, Jack couldn't read her expression.  
  
It was a rather unfamiliar feeling.  
  
He didn't like it.  
  
“What about?” he whispered, trying his best at patience.  
  
“I... made a proposal, that I start preparing for my future.”  
  
Jack got a natural sinking feeling in his gut; for Elsa's sake, he bit his lip and nodded his head along, and let out a wry grin on his lips as he quipped, “Well. No surprises there.”  
  
She let out a meager smile, mainly to appease him.  
  
This _really_ did not bode well.  
  
“On second thought, perhaps... perhaps discussion was not the truest word for it,” Elsa sighed, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap. “I told him rather directly, I suppose, while I still had the nerve. I told him it's time that I start seeking out more responsibility for my kingdom, as is my duty.”  
  
Jack blinked—once, twice, then again.  
  
He hadn't even known this was on her mind.  
  
“Yeah,” he encouraged her, voice rasping slightly as his heart leap into his throat. His veins were suddenly bursting with energy. _Yes_ , his mind called, as realization flooded in. _Yes!_ “You should totally do that—fourteen is the age that Arendelle citizens really start, right? It's perfect—now is the time— _you should_ —what did he say?”  
  
Her lips thinned into a firm line, thoughtful. “He understands my... devotion,” she said quietly. “But as King, he cannot permit it. Not yet.”  
  
“Wait, what? He— _why_?”  
  
“For only the same reasons that any good King would deny his eldest daughter the opportunity to make claim of her royal obligations,” she said quietly. “For the safety of their kingdom.” Elsa breathed deeply and added, “And hers.”  
  
Jack forced himself to blink again, in an effort to clear out the fuzz that was obviously clouding his brain.  
  
“But—I mean, it's not like—it's not like you're going to start parading about the streets without gloves or—or journeying overseas or anything. _Unless_ —unless that's what you wanna do, in which case, I am _all_ for that. Totally. In fact—we can work on more of the controlling piece from now on, instead of the creation. Yeah. Elsa, this is _doable_. We can like—get you on a ship, and you can _go_ places—you can _see_ stuff, you know? You can—”  
  
“We reached a compromise,” Elsa gently cut in, stopping him in his tracks. “He agrees that there is great merit in developing a greater understanding of the responsibilities of my birthright. My parents have always believed in the practice of face-to-face negotiation in matters of foreign policy, and he hopes that I will one day be able to do the same.”  
  
Jack's expression darkened. “But he makes no promises,” he muttered.  
  
Elsa went on as if she hadn't heard.  
  
“So,” Elsa took another bracing breath, and Jack watched with tight eyes as her shoulders rose and fell, stiff and straight, her posture as properly upright as ever. She looked so rigid, sitting like that, with her chin held high, and her hands locked in place in her lap. “He is willing to intensify my studies, to help prepare me for the deeper complexities of what it means to be responsible for the safety and happiness of an entire kingdom... as well as that of our alliances, to an extent. Though I am sure you are no stranger to something like that,” she told Jack, catching him completely off-guard. His eyes widened in surprise as she smiled at him, sadly. “After all, Arendelle is my whole world... but it is a mere fraction in your realm,” she whispered, wonderingly.  
  
“Uh. _Whoah_ ,” Jack said quickly, uneasily, and forced himself not to move back on the rug; her words made him feel uncomfortable on _many_ different levels, and at the moment all of the reasons were all pretty much competing on the same level for his undivided, immediate discomfort. “First of all—I don't. I don't—wait, I don't get what you're trying to say,” he blurted, stomach flip-flopping uncontrollably.  
  
“You don't see it?” Elsa asked quietly, leaning forward slightly to examine his face. “Here I am, desperately trying to find a way to prove that I can protect the kingdom that I love... and you, Jack, are already a protector—for _millions_ of lives. Perhaps more. I can barely fathom life beyond these walls... let alone trying to rule over a kingdom that is supposed to one day be mine, and to do justice to my family's efforts of peace. And yet you have so much more weight upon your shoulders than I could ever imagine. It's a little silly, don't you think?” Elsa mused quietly, and Jack couldn't keep the fuck up with this, didn't know _where_ her mind was going, or what he was supposed to do to follow. “I think it is, at least. Sometimes I think myself foolish for ever thinking that I could one day rule a kingdom I've never truly been a part of. In a place where I may never really be strong enough to show myself, let alone my true self, without giving away everything.”  
  
“Elsa, stop,” Jack said suddenly, pushing out his hands to make _sure_ she did. She went silent, awaiting his reaction, but Jack had no clue what the hell that was supposed to be, either. “What are you talking about? The only reason you've never been allowed outside of these walls is because your—okay, you know what? It doesn't _matter_ that you haven't seen the rest of the kingdom, or the rest of the world—okay, so it does, but that's not my point—because my point is that you _will_ , okay? One day—one day _soon—_ you are gonna take control of your powers and you're going to be stronger than you ever fucking thought possible—”  
  
“ _Jack_!”  
  
“Whoah, I—sorry, um—that wasn't—actually. Actually, you know what? I'm _not_ sorry, okay? Elsa, you need to hear this, and the way I say it might not be the most diplomatic, or the prettiest language, but I _mean_ it, and I need to say it, and this is the only way I know how. Elsa, you are going to be stronger than you ever fucking thought possible, and you are going to get a hold on your powers, and do everything that you ever said you would do, because you only make the promises that you know you can keep,” Jack said severely, breathing heavily. He gulped down a bubble of air, and blinked suddenly, realizing that he'd moved closer to her in the midst of his speech, so close that his knees had encroached upon her space, hugging the space of her ankles, just below where she'd tucked her knees to her chest, where she was hugging them to her. He coughed slightly, clearing his throat and his head, and tried to remember where he'd left off.  
  
“I don't...” Jack mumbled, jerking his head with a hazy kind of loss. “I don't, um...”  
  
Him? Protector of millions?  
  
Yeah, maybe. That's what it said on paper, at least, in all of the storybooks—or most, anyway. _Jack Frost, Master of Snowballs and Fun Times.  
  
King of Fools_.  
  
“Do you know what I'm trying to say?” he whispered, and let his breathing even out, let his mind slowly ease into blankness. He could feel his body winding itself down. He was starting to feel a little guilty, and a little embarrassed, about his outburst, so he sighed, ignoring it, and said, “I don't know what to tell you... All I know is that none of this— _none_ of it—is any of your fault. You didn't ask for any of it. And if your father is gonna be a— _a_ —if he's not going to even give you the chance to _prove_ yourself—then we'll figure out a way to make him, and we'll prove him wrong, and you'll show him that there's more to you than just your magic, or your stupid gloves, or any of that. Anna _loves_ you, okay? She loves you, and she misses you, more than anything, and one day you are gonna—you're gonna be able to...”  
  
Jack cleared his throat, and lowered his eyes to the floor. Her ankles were still tucked between his knees.  
  
“Father allowed me one condition,” Elsa said quietly, and Jack looked up, incredulous. His back was suddenly aching, and his lungs felt heavy in his chest. Jack licked his dry, cracking lips, and breathed.  
  
“What is it?” he whispered, too tired to feel much of anything about his ranting, and too exhausted to decide whether or not he should be embarrassed anymore. _Fuck it_.  
  
“He... is willing to consider an opportunity,” Elsa explained quietly, watching him very carefully; he watched the way her face moved as she spoke, and he had the feeling that she was more or less doing the same. “A way of... testing, I suppose, my comfort.”  
  
“Or control, you mean.”  
  
“Yes,” Elsa agreed through a whisper. “Though, I suppose... for me, they are often one in the same.”  
  
Jack sighed, feeling his lips tug lower into the corners of his jaw; he couldn't really argue with that. Jack tucked an elbow into his thigh and let his chin rest heavily in his palm.  
  
“Father intends to follow tradition,” she revealed, and picked herself back up, little by little. Her shoulders rose high again, just slightly, and her chin lifted. She was coming back into herself, the brave face and determination. “If I can prove myself decidedly improved by the arrival of my fifteenth birthday, arrangements will be made as they would be for any proper young lady, for when she comes of age.”  
  
Jack stared at her, blankly.  
  
“If I can convince my father that I am ready to become a greater presence in my kingdom by my fifteenth birthday...” Elsa was speaking slowly, watching him intently, as if she expected him to catch on at any moment. “He intends to see me introduced to society, formally, in honor of my sixteenth.”  
  
He didn't catch on.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa breathed, a tad impatiently. “He has promised to hold a proper ball, _here_ , at the castle, in honor of my coming of age.” Jack could feel her eyes roving over his face, but everything felt like stone, cold with shock. “With _guests,”_ she breathed, and she sounded so deliriously surprised herself that she nearly laughed. “For a few nights only, we would host some of our strongest allies, and other royal families from around our realm. A small gathering, of course, but I would be formally announced as a member of society, and a _ball_ would be held in celebration. I could... I could _meet_ so many people, Jack. I could learn so much, and _prove_ that I'm—and of course, it's _terrifying._ It's so terrifying that I can hardly stand the thought of sleep, or anything—I hardly had any appetite today, at all, and only ate what I could of my supper because Olga came to check on me _twice_ and—”  
  
“We'll do it,” Jack said, suddenly, as all of the pieces began to click into place.  
  
If there was one thing that Jack Frost was familiar with, one plan of action that he knew from the depths of his heart, it was the instinct, above all else, of ridding Elsa of her fear.  
  
Elsa swallowed hard, and Jack realized, belatedly—that this this was what she'd been waiting to hear all along.  
  
“We will?” she whispered, scarcely allowing herself to hope.  
  
But there was trust in her eyes, and her gaze was focused solely on him, and his words, like he was capable of anything.  
  
It was a powerful feeling. _She_ made him feel powerful—like he _was_ capable of anything.  
  
As long as she believed in him.  
  
“Yeah,” Jack whispered, and smiled, in spite of himself. He watched, feeling something swell and burst inside his chest, as a smile slowly graced her lips as well. “Yeah,” he repeated, and let Hope take root. “I think we will.”

.

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.  
  
“But... the thing is... Anna will not be allowed to attend.  
  
She will be too young, and will no doubt be forced to stay with the youngest,  
and retire long before much of the party can truly begin.  
It's rather cruelly unfair... isn't it?  
  
I would find it no surprise, if she should hate me.  
  
I would not blame her.”

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.  
  
. * * * .  
  
It didn't occur to Jack until much later, all of the sorts of preparation that would be involved in this.  
Elsa had come so far— _they_ had come so far—but she still had such a long way to go...  
  
There would be so many people and so many distractions.  
She'd be expected to be present, both physically _and_ mentally, while conversing and dining and mingling,  
or whatever it was that fancy royal people did at these things. Birthday balls, or whatever.  
  
And it wasn't until much, much later, that it occurred to Jack,  
that balls usually meant people and music, and music usually meant dancing, and dancing usually meant touching,  
and wait a damn minute, didn't these sorts of balls usually mean young women were somehow suddenly eligible for marriage?  
  
. * * * .

 


	49. - still there -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/7/14_. After reaching another incredible milestone of 200 kudos, it looks like the numbers have finally started to plateau! I haven't been seeing as many new readers come in lately, so it looks like you guys might be it for the long haul! Thanks for sticking around. :)
> 
> I wasn't able to update yesterday because life has been pretty crazy this week... and someone who shall not be named ( ~~socksssss~~ ) sent me a fabulous song recommendation that fit another one of my WIPs so perfectly that I stopped writing Jelsa mid-sentence in order to go work on the other fic some more. :P Hoping to find a bit more balance from now on, hahaha.
> 
> Also, the more I write for this fic, the more I catch myself forgetting that this is supposed to be a crossover. (“Wait. You mean—this _didn't_ happen? Jack Frost _doesn't_ exist in this realm? They never actually met?”)
> 
> Because honestly, it's getting a lot harder to remember that.

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- still there -_  
  
. * * * .  
  
  
Or, seven reasons why the next four weeks gave Jack Frost a lot to think about:

1\. For the first time in what felt like forever, they had a _goal_. A concrete, particular _goal_. They had a timeline—and _this_ time, instead of feeling each tick of the clock like an ice pick to the face, Jack was able to look forward to the passage of time. The passing weeks meant more to them now; it meant _they_ were moving forward, too, instead of just being swept up and carried off, adrift. When December finally hit, it came with equal parts dread and anticipation and excitement and determination—and suddenly, time was just as much an ally as it was an enemy.  
  
2\. Naturally, the whole of their focus shifted from creating magic to hiding it, and for once, Jack actually convinced himself— _forced_ himself—to be okay with this. ( _This is going to help her get where she needs to be_ , he told himself. _With people_.... _with_ her _people_.) Of course, Jack couldn't imagine a universe where he would ever actually be satisfied with any of this— _the secrecy, the hiding, the Princess locked away in her tower_ —but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. Technically speaking, this was the best—if not the _only_ —choice. (Because it wasn't like anybody ever thought to ask the winter sprite for his input. Nope.)  
  
3\. If there was one downside to Elsa's renewed vigor—and honestly, there were actually a few—it was probably that Elsa's sense of humor was all over the place. He was never quite sure whether she was going to scold him, peg him with a snowball to the face, or actually laugh along with him. It was always pretty much a fifty-fifty shot. (Her reaction. Not her aim.) Wait—that was three things. (So, not fifty-fifty? Maybe it was thirty-three, thirty-three, thirty—  
  
Whatever. Elsa was the math whiz, not him.)  
  
4\. Anna had not yet been informed of any potential ball happenings... nor that she would not be invited to join the party. (Granted, neither had anyone else, because it wasn't actually a _guarantee_ that—)  
  
Jack had a sneaking suspicion that the Queen might eventually cave in once the depth of Anna's realization, and subsequent devastation, took hold, but he refused to suggest the hunch to Elsa, who already had enough to worry about as it was. Besides—he had no clue, really. The Queen would obviously want a chance for her daughters to be together, but it was also up to whether or not the King would be willing to push boundaries... especially considering how much he thought he was _already_ pushing things. Like his luck. (Or his sanity.) The King, in all his rigid propriety, was pretty predictable—until he wasn't—but the Queen was a bit harder to figure out; she was pretty soft, obviously, but she was also firm, and _fuck it_ —he promised himself he wasn't going to think like that anymore.  
  
5\. He tried asking Toothiana for help once, the second week into December. (North was busy being a maniac at the Pole, and Jack hadn't quite come up with excuses for why he couldn't have asked Bunny or Sandy yet, though he would, soon enough.) He really wanted to find a way to apologize to her, too, and had been thinking about how he was going to do that ever since Elsa announced the plans she'd made with the King, but when he'd tried to reach out to her, she was still just as busy as ever. She was really worried about the rising situation with her growing collection of teeth, he could tell, and barely had any words for him when he stopped by, which was, admittedly, not an expected visit. (He was forgetful, which was hard to explain to the Guardian of Memories. Okay, and maybe a bit of a coward. A forgetful coward.)  
  
He had this sort of strange sense that she was hiding something from him... but maybe that was just him over-thinking things. (The world didn't revolve around _him_ , duh, and Toothiana had her own world of responsibilities to attend to—most of which were at least a century older than he was.) He chalked up his weird sense to paranoia, and reminded himself that he'd just gotten too used to being hyper-fricken-sensitive to just about anything to do with body language and nonverbal communication, or whatever people labeled it these days, thanks to having to learn how to decipher Elsa for almost, what—eight? Nine years? He'd have to go back and count, quickly, before she caught him forgetting. (See? Forgetful.) Elsa was rubbing off on him, apparently. (The perceptive part. Not the memory part. She, on the other hand, remembered _too_ clearly.  
  
Her memories, too sharp.)  
  
6\. It occurred to him, sometimes, just how lucky he was. Elsa would be talking to him, about anything, sitting at the window while hung by, or she'd make some stern remark about some joke he'd said—probably about the groundskeeper—or she'd laugh at him, or smile with him, and it would occur to him—  
  
He was still there.

7\. The week before Christmas, Jack mentioned once, tentatively, the realization he'd had about the whole marriageability thing; she had immediately dismissed the possibility as preposterous. She then proceeded to give him a rather thorough list of all the reasons why that was the _last_ thing that would ever come of the ball—that it was more likely she'd be chased to the Northern Mountain by a mob with torches and pitchforks. He did not find her joke funny, in the slightest. When at last she took pity on him, Elsa told him that she had no intentions of leaving Arendelle.

(" _There is still so much to do here—this is my home, and my responsibility. Even if my magic were under control, I would have no intentions of running off to play house in another castle. Our alliances are strong, and there will be plenty of time for marriage later, I suppose, when it's the right step for the kingdom. But for now I have to stay here, in Arendelle. It's the only way I'll ever truly know what I'm capable of._ ")

And also, of course, the fact that romance was absolutely the furthest thing from her mind and _honestly, Jack, it's not like you to ask dumb questions.  
_

(Har. Har.)  
  
Still. He wasn't sorry he asked.  
  
. * * * .

 


	50. - as sweet -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/11/14_. Woooo, sorry, that was probably the longest break between chapter updates we've ever had. I've been especially busy this week, even more so than last, and to be honest, my motivation for this story has been dwindling. The awesome thing about spring is that it's getting WARMER and the snow is MELTING so I can go RUNNING, but that also means that my free time is gradually shifting to training and, also... it's getting trickier to write about frost babies when the hype is already starting to dwindle. D: There are so many fandoms and so many stories to write and so little TIME.
> 
> I'm also mad at myself for starting another WIP multi-chapter because SERIOUSLY, but this just wouldn't get out of my head, ugh, and I couldn't have avoided writing this even if I'd tried. :P
> 
> I've also let go of my goal of finishing by the end of March. My plans for this story are definitely taking it into 90+ chapters, and I'm not writing as quickly as I did in February and January. :P Womp, womp. New goal is maybe.... end of April or mid-May? MAYBE BY EASTER AND TIME OF HOPE, if I'm lucky. :P :P
> 
> Anyway, I'm sort of fond of this one, even if it took forever for me to sit down and actually write it.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- as sweet -_  
  
. * * * .  


Three weeks before Elsa's fifteenth birthday, Jack found himself sitting beside the frosted window, looking up at the stars. The rest of the castle had fallen asleep hours before, and the rooms were hushed with stillness, set to the soothing lullaby of gentle waves upon the shore.  
  
(And, perhaps, the occasional _Shhhhh!_  
  
...whenever Jack forgot himself.)  
  
All of Arendelle rested on while Jack and Elsa remained awake, passing the time with chocolates and chit-chat, and trying their hardest to be quiet. She was in one of her fine nightdresses and a thick, dark blue robe, though her matching slippers— _little flats, much like the rest of her simple shoes_ —laid toppled over one another on the floor. For the first time in all of the years that Jack could ever remember knowing her, her feet were bare—like his. She'd tucked them under her on the cushion, and laid her arms over the windowsill, and pressed her forehead against the glass. The intricate twists and knots of her hair hung low at the nape of her neck, her best presentation in perfect place even at so late an hour, though they were, actually, expecting another visitor.  
  
“Honestly, it's a wonder that anyone would think you two friendly, what with that awful scowl on your face.”  
  
“Was that pun intended, your highness, or is your ruthlessness simply accidental today?”  
  
Her laughter was interrupted by the bite of another piece of chocolate. Jack attempted to fix his expression, but apparently wasn't all that successful, because Elsa rolled her eyes at him— _that's not very princess-like, is it?_ —and he celebrated the subtle show of his influence by shoving another chocolate into his mouth, and grinning at her.  
  
“Would you ever stay up this late if it were _me_ who was coming to town?” he asked, his words tumbling around a wad of half-eaten, melted chocolate. He swallowed, and belatedly remembered that he should have savored the taste; he popped another into his mouth, before she could protest. (They were down to three chocolates, but that was all right—North would probably be arriving soon, anyway.)  
  
“You rarely ever arrive at such a late hour,” Elsa replied reasonably, carefully picking another chocolate from the box. (It was a... truffle, maybe?) She recognized all of the shapes and colors for the different flavors they were, and favored some more than others. Jack didn't really much care what he put into his mouth, as long as it tasted good.  
  
(A dark, heavy cloud settled into the pit of his stomach, so quiet and sudden that he was hardly prepared, and Jack wondered to himself, distantly, _Did chocolate still taste as sweet—_  
  
 _If you didn't need the sugar to survive?_ )

Elsa caught Jack scowling again; as infrequently as Jack made any sort of move to reach out to her, it was twice as rare for Elsa to initiate any sort of contact, which was probably why the sudden feel of her gloved fingers on his shoulder was able to bring him back to the present so quickly.  
  
That, and the fact that she'd all but pushed him off the bench.  
  
“What was that for?” Jack demanded, perhaps a bit more intensely than he'd intended. There was still a lot going on in his head, and he wasn't sure the rest of him had quite caught up yet.  
  
“I'm sorry!” Elsa said quickly, eyes wide. “I didn't expect you to move so easily! Are you all right?”  
  
Of course he moved easily _—_ he was the size of a twig _. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, blah, blah blah, blah blah._  
  
“Well, I just nearly fell from this fatal ledge onto the carpet, so pretty well, considering.”  
  
“Jack,” Elsa tried to reprimand, before her smile ruined it. It took him a second, to find the concern in her eyes again, but it was there.  
  
Jack kicked back, feeling rather satisfied with himself.  
  
“Are you really all right?” Elsa asked more quietly, a few moments later, just as his good humor was almost fully restored. He knew she wasn't talking about the bench.  
  
“Fine,” he replied with a shrug, as nonchalant as he could manage. (It wasn't exactly easy, since she was watching him with the eyes of a hawk.) Because he knew he wouldn't be able to slide by with so little effort, Jack heaved a sigh and reluctantly amended, “For the most part.” His voice aimed for flippant, but it mostly just came out exhausted. Before Elsa could find a breath to jump in, he added, “I just had a weird thought for a second, but it's gone. It's not really worth talking about.”  
  
Far out beyond the safe reach of the harbor, the waves were restless upon the horizon; the winter winds and cold night air had swept through Arendelle all the way from the gentle coast to the high mountains peaks, and Jack was intent on considering it all very intently—anything in order to avoid Elsa's gaze.  
  
“You know what used to amuse Anna, when we were younger?” Elsa whispered. Jack stiffened, but tried to make it look less obvious.  
  
“What?” he asked softly, and shifted his face toward hers—but she wasn't really looking at him, either.  
  
“There was a phrase in a book that I once read to her... I couldn't have known at the time, but I realized some years later that it must have been brought over from your world, along with the book that taught me to believe in you,” Elsa revealed, and _why_ were they talking about this? This was the last thing he wanted her to have to be thinking about. If he could just learn how to control his damn poker face for one frickin' day—and of _all_ the days to have to—  
  
“It didn't make much sense to us at first, of course, though we were able to deduce the meaning from the context of the story... anyway, once Anna caught on, she thought it was one of the most wonderful things in the world,” Elsa smiled, soft and sly, then added, “And yes... my choice of words _was_ intentional. This time.”  
  
Jack stared at her for a long moment, and against his better judgment, a slow grin lifted half the curve of his mouth. “What was it?” he asked, if only to humor her.  
  
But her answer surprised him.  
  
Elsa rolled her lips together, thoughtfully, as if pulling the words from deep within some buried, treasured memory, hid closely behind the lock around her heart. ( _X marks the spot,_ thought Jack, absurdly.) The sigh that escaped her body left her sagging against the glass, but her eyes held a smile—glowing, even as they mourned.  
  
As they remembered.  
  
“A penny for your thoughts,” Elsa whispered, looking at him from along the expanse of frosted window, and Jack sat back, curious. “You reminded me of it, just now. She would say that to me sometimes, when I would get thoughtful, or worried.” A small breath of laughter escaped her, and she mumbled, “Even before she figured out what a penny was.”  
  
Try as he might, Jack couldn't completely fight off the frown that pulled at his lips.  
  
“Hate to break it to you,” he muttered, absently rubbing at his forehead. “But it's not really that sweet of a phrase. I mean, yeah, people say it because they want to know what's on someone else's mind—but like, rich people used to joke about actually paying money to have someone tell them their opinion—because they probably wouldn't ever actually say it otherwise. At least, not truthfully.” And Jack should probably know; that saying had existed from even before his lifetime, when a penny was actually worth something. “It was just another clever way for fancy politicians to invite other fancy politicians to offer up their fancy opinions.”  
  
So he didn't really get it, when she smiled at him.  
  
“That may be so,” Elsa said gently, and suddenly Jack found that he was bracing himself—brows slanting dubiously, smirk quirking with challenge, an _I told you so_ on the tip of his— “But I much prefer Anna's take,” she declared softly, gazing upon the sea. “That every thought is worth something, even if the owner is not willing to value it, themselves.”  
  
Jack caught her smile, all grace and warmth, its bright light and gentle intensity, and Jack couldn't help but wonder—when had he stopped seeing Elsa just as one of his guarded children, a special assignment who he needed to protect, at all costs?  
  
When had she become his best friend?

( _He still didn't want to talk about it, the darkness that occasionally crept in—but it looked like Elsa already knew that._  
 _Though Jack acknowledged that he'd never really expected any differently._ )  


Jack also wondered if she'd still remember this saying when she eventually negotiated trade with the leaders of Weselton, who put value on everything—including their own thoughts. (And, knowing the Duke, they were probably grossly overpriced.)  
  
“That sounds like Anna,” Jack mused quietly, instead, sighing through his crooked grin.  
  
Elsa kept her eyes on the waves upon the shore and, smiling to herself, whispered, “I rather think so, too.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
And when North finally arrived not more than an hour later, fourteen-year-old Elsa saw his sleigh for the third or fourth time,  
with all the endless wonder which she'd gazed upon it the first.  
  
(Jack didn't actually know how many times she'd seen it, because North's visits were rarely expected, despite his once-a-year holiday,  
and North had taken to popping in by way of magical snow globe, which Jack liked even less—and Elsa loved even more.)  
  
And Jack didn't even mind it, really, when North filled his stocking with coal (and didn't bother to take it back, this year),  
because Elsa laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Jack,” Elsa whispered fondly, offering up another of her chocolates.  
  
And, you know—it was.  
  
. * * * .

 


	51. - hope begins -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/16/14_ Whoooooooahhh, sorry. :P It's still hella cold here, but I'm officially back in training mode for my 10k, half-marathon, marathon line-up! (10k is on April 19th, half-marathon sometime in June, and marathon #2 in the fall!) Not to mention, this weekend was especially busy! Birthdays and babysitting all around.
> 
>  _Plus_ , I was accepted into my top choice of grad school programs! How funny, that I started this story as a way to take some breaks during the application process... and here I am! ~~Fifty chapters in and still—~~ Accepted and ready to enroll for the summer session! 
> 
> Which _means_ that I have a new goal: I want this story DONE by May 5th, even if it means cutting out a few side-story plots that I was hoping to include along the way. :P
> 
> Thanks again for all of your continued support! I've gotten so many wonderful comments and followers from this story, and I really appreciate each and every one! I try to respond to every review, even if it might take me a bit, but I read each one as soon as I get the e-mail. :) Thanks again!
> 
> Hoping to post another quick one tonight, but no promises! For the record, I really, really like this one... :)

. * * * .  
  
_(and that's when)_  
  
_\- hope begins -_  
  
. * * * .

 

It was New Year's Eve at the North Pole, and Jack was really getting tired of all the ribbing at his expense.  
  
Granted, if there was anyone in the world who could take a joke, Jack figured it was probably him—but something was _definitely_ up with Toothiana, and North was impossibly jolly, and even Sandy was a little tipsy, and Bunnymund—the ever-powerful, all-knowing Pooka—had already imbibed his fair share of celebratory drink at _least_ three hours ago. (“It is the drink of _life_ , mate,” and “Come now, Jack Frost—our furry friend speaks the truth!”) Despite all the jabs, however, Jack was sticking true to his word... and was wisely avoiding the vodka. (Besides, it was a lot easier to watch the yetis this way. Because _someone_ had to.)  
  
And for a while, that was mostly how Jack amused himself... until it was clear that Toothiana was indeed avoiding him.  
  
So, fearing the boisterous volume of a jolly, drunken North, Jack reluctantly sought out the only other Guardian who could probably offer up some maybe-decent advice.  
  
Bunny.  
  
Of course, for all that grousing about too much noise and dim-witted elves, the Easter Bunny wasn't very happy about being pulled away from the party. And he really must have drank more than Jack thought, because he wasn't too quick on the uptake—and even less so once Jack had steered him into North's workshop and had spilled out all of his garbled-up, messed-up concerns, but then again, Jack had this habit of speaking really quickly when he was ranting about something, and he didn't always pause to check and see if his audience was understanding, and then more often than not, he ended up getting frustrated with people when they weren't catching on fast enough, mostly because he, himself, felt like a blathering idiot, and so he had to repeat himself all over again, slower, only it didn't really happen that way and—  
  
“ _Nelly_ , slow your blasted engines!” Bunnymund thrust his furry hands— _paws?_ —out in front of him, like Jack was on oncoming freight train. “You think _who_ is mad at your _what,_ now?”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Jack snapped, spitting a sharp breath of frost between them; less than a minute into the conversation, and Jack was already thoroughly exasperated. “I'm talking about _Tooth_ ,” he nearly growled, gripping his staff in his fists to keep his hands from running through his hair. “Tooth is mad at me and I don't know _why_ , and dammit, I'm trying to ask you for help!”  
  
“Well, you didn't bloody say that the first time!”  
  
“Yeah, I did! You were just... it might have gotten a little messed up in the delivery, all right? But believe me, it was in there, and what the hell ever, man, can you help me or not?”  
  
“Sweet, crazy eggnog, aren't you just as much a bundle of daises as ever.”  
  
“ _Bunnymund_ ,” Jack growled, and this time—his hands _did_ sweep through his hair, raking over his scalp in a strange, embarrassed sort of frustration... one that usually only ever came up around the other Guardians.  
  
“All right, well—fine,” Bunnymund mumbled, shifting his shoulders and his stance, as if rebalancing himself. (Bracing himself? Jack certainly was.) “Crikey, what the blazes makes you think Tooth is mad at you 'n the first place?”  
  
“You're kidding,” Jack glared flatly. A tense pause permeated the air between them, and his arms crossed over his front of their own accord. “You're kidding, right?”  
  
“ _Kid_ , do you want my help or not?”  
  
Jack bit his cheek while chagrin rankled over the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he muttered, then attempted a deep breath. He bounced on his heels, trying to get some of the tension to fly away. It went on like that for half a minute, while he got himself worked up—calmed _down_?—and then he started pacing, the end of his staff trailing along behind him on the floor, and from there on out, the floodgates were open.  
  
“Look, I've been meaning to apologize to her—and to Sandy too, but especially to Tooth—because I've been realizing what a jerk I've been lately, and for a while I was afraid that _that_ was the reason she was avoiding me, because I'd been taking her for granted—”  
  
“ _Jack_ , nobody blames you for taking some time to adjust, all right?” Bunnymund cut in, his voice surprisingly even. (No slurring? No condescension? Perhaps he'd transcended to a new level of drunkenness.) “We all struggled with it, too, and all handled it differently—but I wouldn't say any of us handled it _well_... At least, not at first. Yeah, it wouldn't kill 'ya to reel it in every once in a while, 'cuz she tolerates you best, and without her, you'd probably be doing nothing but sniveling your brooding self down in every forest across the—”  
  
“Bunny.”  
  
“Yeah, all right, anyway. You should apologize, yeah, don't need me to tell you that. So, what's the real issue?”  
  
“The issue—the _issue_ is that I realized it must be _more_ than that,” Jack groaned, feel more at a loss than ever. “'Cuz we even talked about it, a little, about how she cared about me, but she wasn't going to put up with my shit—”  
  
“Wouldn't have ever expected her to.”  
  
“And I realized that I was directing a lot of my nastier moments toward her, because—I don't know—because—”  
  
“Because she'd still be there, in the end,” Bunny said gently. "No matter how awful you were."

It was more than him taking the words out of Jack's mouth... it was like he'd pulled them straight out of his chest.

“Yeah...” Jack murmured, glancing at the floor. “Because no matter how mad I got, or how short my temper was, it felt like I could... I don't know, always count on her to help me figure shit out. And I didn't really believe it at first, so maybe I was trying to—I don't know, _test it_ —I know it sounds stupid, and it sounds even stupider now that I say it out loud—but then, I guess I—I sort of realized that she _would_ be there for me—that all you guys would. And it just... It got to the point where I was doing it too much—and I appreciated her, always, but I didn't... I didn't always let her know, you know?

"And I didn't really do my best to change it, either, because I was so focused on _Elsa_ , and—I fucked up, pretty much. And I know that, and I've been trying to find a way to tell her this—and Sandy, too, man, I gotta really remember that—but _then_ she—she just... I don't know!” Jack exclaimed suddenly, eyes wide with a fresh wave of confusion. “It's like she just— _switched off,_ or something. She barely says two words to me when I try to go see her, and she doesn't really want to talk after any meetings, either, and she's just—she's _so_ busy, all the time, and for a while I figured that that was the reason, because of the magic and the teeth—but—even _then_ , she doesn't want to talk about it—at least not to _me,_ and seriously, dude, am I making this shit up in my head? Because I don't know what to think anymore, and I can't decide if you telling me that I'm just imagining things, or telling me that she _is_ mad at me would be worse, because I don't know what I'm supposed to do about either, and honestly, I just sorta feel like punching somebody in the face—”  
  
“ _Yeeeaah_ , okay _,_ Guardian—take a step back from Ramblyville, and _think_ ,” Bunny ordered, and for once, Jack was so out of his mind that he actually obeyed, straight away. “I... I think I got the gist of what you're getting' at, but I got a question for ya, first.” He took a deep breath, and soon Jack followed his lead, and then Bunny was crossing his arms thoughtfully, and asking him, “When exactly did all this start?”  
  
“I... I don't know, like—a couple of months ago?”  
  
“Think harder,” Bunny commanded, eyes suddenly serious. “When did you start to notice any differences?”  
  
“Dude, I don't _know—_ maybe it was, like, four months ago? Five? But I don't know what could have—”  
  
“Frost, are you telling me that you don't remember _anything_ that could have prompted a bit of cold shoulder?”  
  
“Cold shoulder?” Jack echoed shrewdly, eyeing Bunny with renewed suspicion. “What are you—”  
  
Bunny covered his face with his hands and let out a groan that... didn't really sound very bunny-like at all.  
  
“Flying _eggshells_ , I told myself I wasn't gonna get wrapped up in this,” Bunny muttered into his hands, mostly to himself, although Jack could hear him crystal-clear; Jack's whole face contorted with indignant curiosity, and then the pieces slowly clicked into place.... ( _Wait a minute—do you know something?! Did you fucking know something this whole time?!_ And yet he'd let Jack blather on for—) _“_ It _started_ , would you say, around the time that we took that rest up in Canada? In the Boreal Forest?”  
  
“I don't frickin' know!” Jack growled back, still clinging to the anger of realizing that Bunny had apparently been withholding information this _whole damn time_. “Why didn't you say something before? Why'd you let me—”  
  
“Has it occurred to you that you could _ask_ Toothiana, yourself?” Bunny interrupted crisply, and it enraged him—how calm Bunny was, how level his voice was—while Jack felt like he might explode. “I don't get involved in matters that aren't mine, you should know, and I ain't about to betray a friend's confidence just because another one is too damn hasty to look right past the whole damn point.”  
  
“What are you _talking_ about?”  
  
“If you would take a minute to think about this _seriously_ like I asked you to, instead of being so damn hard on yourself for something that the rest of us have all come to accept about you pretty much anyway, you might recognize that all this hubbub started when she and Sandy confronted you about your thing for the Queen!”  
  
Jack reeled back, blinking with shock.  
  
“You— _know_ about that?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , though you bloody better well keep that from North, because Sandy made us bet to see who could keep mum about it longest, and I damn well ain't swimming in fermented eggnog because you clueless, foggy-eyed show-pony couldn't figure out your game plan on your own!”  
  
“I don't—I don't fucking _believe_ this—what the hell _else_ don't I fucking know about?”  
  
“That's what I'm tryin'a tell you, Guardian— _a whole damn lot_. And I'm tryn' to tell ya that Toothiana _has_ been avoiding you lately—but not for the reasons you've wrapped your lil' head around so tightly that you're damn near suffocatin' yourself.”  
  
“You— _you_ —what?”  
  
“And don't you bloody repeat this, or so help me, to the Moon and back, Jack, I swear you'll be spitting grass sod for a year—because she is convinced that _one day,_ sooner than you might think, this infatuation with the Queen is going to get you hurt.”  
  
He felt winded, like he'd just taken a punch to the gut.  
  
The entry to his lungs clamped shut, locking out his next breath, and it brought the most unfamiliar sensation with it— _pain?_ —but in the next moment, in one fell swoop, the air came rushing back in, filling his lungs like a cloud of dust.  
  
“It's _not—_ it's not, like—it's not _like_ that. I don't have any stupid infatuations, all right?” Jack spat, as the air around him shifted and tightened, tensing with cold. “I don't know what the hell they told you, but it's not—and if it ever _was_ , once upon a time, then it's already over anyway, okay? It was stupid to ever think that way—and I _didn't_ , anyway, not really—no matter what they told you and, all right, so maybe it _was_ a really stupid crush, sort of, in the beginning, and really inconvenient and really stupid, but I'm _getting better at it_ , all right? All right? And you know what—if Tooth's so worried about me, then what the hell's with all the silence, anyway? Why doesn't she just tell me she's concerned about, herself? Why—”  
  
“Because,” Bunny interrupted firmly. “There are some things, Jack Frost, that we all need to learn for ourselves. _All_ of us,” Bunny insisted, eyes like knives. “And sometimes... sometimes it's easier to not be right there, when you watch someone you care about... learn a lesson you've already learned yourself.”  
  
Jack could feel his chest, caving and rising with what he imagined was supposed to be his breath. Bunny's words were so sharp, but... _The way he's looking at me_...  
  
Somehow, Jack managed to swallow his pride. “...what lesson?”  
  
And Bunny was very old, indeed, when he looked down at him, bright eyes made brighter by centuries of wisdom, and said, “Mortals are mortal, Jack... Our very existence depends on them, but it's it's dangerous to get too close. It's harder to remember this, in the beginning.”  
  
The words settled strangely in the air, and Jack waited, watching Bunny's face carefully... There was something there, in the lines of his face, that made Jack think there was more to his words than Bunny was letting on.  
  
Jack frowned. “Are we... still talking about the Queen?”  
  
“Yes,” he replied, voice rasping with memory. “But we're talking about all mortals, too, and our connections to them. We've all gotten attached and we've all felt the ties rip away. By time... death. There are lots of reasons. And it doesn't ever really get easier.”  
  
“Bunny,” Jack hesitated. “That's... not something I'm really ready to think about yet.”  
  
He sighed, deep and rich and long. “And that's fine,” Bunny said softly, while Jack stood silent, and tried not to double-over. “And no matter what else I could say to that, I hope that you won't have to face it yet—not for a long, long time. But that's not what I'm tryn' to get at. What I'm try'na to say is... is that no matter what happens to the mortals we come across, they always sort of stick with us, in our hearts and our memories—which is why Toothiana has one of the hardest jobs of all of us,” Bunny told him, eyes lit fierce with respect. “Hosting all of that pain and love and loneliness inside one grand fortress, all to herself. When do you reckon people need their memories the most? As time ages them. As sadness and happiness wind them through life, makes them so caught up in the little things, that they forget the big things that matter... As death separates them from those who they love most—and there are many kinds of death, and some that aren't really death at all, but it's fine, if you're not ready to think about that just yet. The point is that it's Tooth's job to protect those Memories, and she knows better than anyone, how Time and Memory tie together, mate. She's watched them fade, and held them together, and continued to collect them and nurture them, century after century, so that one day, while on their deathbed, a little child who once left a piece of their childhood for the Tooth Fairy can remember what it was like to Believe.”  
  
Jack's stomach tumbled painfully.  
  
“We have to be careful,” Bunny said softly. “We will last, but they... they won't. Not in anything beyond our own memories. And it's _okay_ to keep them there. I don't think I need to remind you of the importance of those, do I?”  
  
Jack frowned, his gut heavy with lead. “No,” he said quietly.  
  
He considered him for a moment, silent. “All right, then,” Bunny whispered.

His head was spinning, slowly but surely, enough to make him feel dizzy. Like the world was turning around him, and his feet were stuck to the floor. ( _Jump_ , whispered a voice, one that sounded suspiciously like Fear. _You are falling,_ the voice continued to whisper, and Jack could taste it, so familiar, like panic. He'd heard this before _—_ but when?  
  
_Go—now!  
Before it's too—_ )  
  
And another dark thought crept into his brain, and mingled with the hurt and loneliness that Jack hadn't bothered to acknowledge until now.  
  
“So... what now?” Jack asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Tooth's just going to avoid me for the next however many decades?”  
  
_Until the Queen kicks the bucket? Is that it?_  
  
“Don't blame Tooth for needing her own space,” Bunny scolded, though Jack reeled at the mere suggestion of such a thing—even as his stomach curdled with shame. “She's been through a hell of a lot his last half a millennium, and seen a lot more pain than you can imagine. Do her a favor and let her process your shite in her own time. I ain't gonna put a timeline on it, and you shouldn't ask for one. Apologize, yeah, because she deserves it, but do it when it'll be good for _her—_ not just so you can get it off your chest.”  
  
“All right!” Jack Frost snapped, thoroughly admonished. “All right,” he repeated, more gently.  
  
A long moment of silence rolled between them. Jack realized, like a heavy weight sinking down onto his stiff shoulders, that he was exhausted.  
  
Maybe he would have a taste of vodka tonight, after all.  
  
Bunny sighed again, and Jack could feel a shift in the air, like some of the tension was evaporating from the space around them, but still tight with too much heightened energy, too much adrenaline, and too much defensiveness for Jack's own good.  
  
But he could also tell that Bunny was trying his hardest to be serious and honest. For him.  
  
“Look... Kid. It's natural, okay?” the Hope-meister was saying, a bit more gently. Bunny was actually trying to be sensitive to his weird mood, and Jack appreciated it, in a way, so he tried to look grateful. (Instead of annoyed that he felt like such a little kid—because he felt that way too, but he tried to bury it down.) “It's happened with all of us, I promise you. You're not alone in this, not ever, and—whatever weird blood there is between us, sometimes, I just want you to know that it's okay to—to develop those sorts of feelings, and... attractions.”  
  
Jack stiffened, unsure.  
  
“Granted, I never much took to royalty—and I never had the misfortune to fancy the mother of anybody's special assignment, let alone _mine_ , but anyway, _look_ ,” Bunny managed, and suddenly, the conversation turned even more exceptionally awkward; Jack was beginning to grow distinctly uncomfortable, and Bunny, for his part, didn't look much better off. “This isn't really my place, and I don't really know your _whole_ story, or what your, uh, _experience_ has been like, if you know what I mean, and to be honest—I don't really care to—but if this is, like, the first time—”  
  
And suddenly, it hit Jack, just where Bunny was going with this.  
  
“ _Whoah_ , whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah—you don't have to go any further, man, I—” Jack stepped back, hands up between him, and his voice lodged embarrassingly in his throat when he stuttered, “I got it.”  
  
Something shifted in Bunny's eyes then: a devious sort of gleam.  
  
_Shit._  
  
Bunny tilted his head slyly, crossed his arms, and uttered out a low, _knowing_ , “You embarrassed, mate?”  
  
“What? No, I—yes. _Yes_ , because I am not having this conversation with you.”  
  
“Trust me—you don't want it with North. He is _loud_.”  
  
Jack knew that. That was originally why he'd decided to seek out Bunnymund, instead.  
  
Big mistake, apparently.  
  
“I don't want to have this talk with _either_ of you!” And  _oh_ , if he still had the capacity to blush. “This is _not_ an okay topic. Okay? Dammit. How are you okay with this?”  
  
“Mate,” Bunny smirked, and he was enjoying this, just a little too much. “You're essentially talking to a _rabbit.”_  
  
“ _Oh-_ kay, that's enough of this.”  
  
“Seriously, mate,” Bunny's voice stopped him, just as his hand slipped to the door; there was still laughter there, just a trace, but there was a whole lot of sincerity in it, too. And pain.  
  
If he listened hard enough.  
  
“Although I'll openly judge you about many a thing, this ain't one of them,” Bunny promised with a rare show of understanding— _a smile, sad and small and true_ —and though Jack believed him, all the way down into the depths of his bones, it left a heavy weight there, another reason for Jack's feet to drag along the floor. “Just because mortal love isn't encouraged doesn't mean it doesn't still happen.”  
_  
What usually happens?_ Jack wanted to ask. _After?_  
  
But he didn't really need Bunnymund to tell him the rest.  
  
Jack Frost took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and tried not to cry. He smiled, instead.  
  
“You know,” Jack began, and twisted his lips into a sly smirk of his own, one that felt much more familiar, even if it didn't feel quite real—not yet. “This didn't really feel like a Hopeful conversation...”  
  
Bunny actually laughed.  
  
“Maybe not... But Hope is borne from touching down to reality. I wouldn't be doing my job right, if everything was all sunshine and daisies.”  
  
“Uh, are you sure about that? Because I'm pretty sure—”  
  
“Shut it, Frost.”

.

.

.

.  
  
.

.

.

.

.  
  
“But... that's how it starts, y'know.  
  
Knowing what's real, and what's possible. And then it's having the courage to Wonder... how far can you reach?  
Reality is so big, but it can feel even bigger, and it's through your Dreams that you decide how far you will go with what you've got,  
and how much you're willing to give up to get there. And that's when Hope begins.  
  
When you decide that your Dreams are reachable,  
and you keep Wondering what steps you will take to reach them,  
and you lock them away, in your Memory, so they stay with you.  
That's Hope.  
  
All you have to do is decide.”

. * * * .

 


	52. - looks like -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/17/14_. Happy St. Patrick's Day! :) Looks like we're back on the once-a-day (once-every-two-days) schedule! For now. :X 
> 
> Thanks for all of the continued support! <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- looks like -_  
  
. * * * .

It was actually the night before—not _of_ —Elsa's fifteenth birthday, that the King made his decision.  
  
Jack was in the room with her when she received the summons. (Olga was quite confused, naturally, and could barely contain herself when she delivered the message, that her royal highness Elsa was requested to meet the King and Queen in the royal study for after-supper tea.) Elsa received the news with graceful aplomb, and the governess cautiously removed herself from the room, a tentative smile on her old, kind face. The door closed shut with a click.  
  
Elsa's gaze found his immediately.  
  
“It's time,” she whispered, eyes round and wide with disbelief. She could barely believe it, even if her expression was just as impressively controlled as ever—the slight tremor in her hands the only indication of her nerves. Jack's whole face, on the other hand, was already starting to hurt, the stretch of his smile was so wide.  
  
“Hell yeah, it's time!” Jack hissed with glee, and hopped closer to where she sat at the vanity in one graceful leap.  
  
“It's... I expected to be tested tomorrow,” she said to her reflection, folding her hands neatly over her lap. She grasped one with the other, to keep them still. “I didn't imagine that he would summon me tonight.” Her brow furrowed with concentration, and disappointment. “He means to throw me off guard.”  
  
“Must be a family trait,” Jack muttered slyly, and when she turned to glare, he dipped his chin down and stared right back, a challenge to his slanted brow. “Which is even _better_ , because it means that he expects that you can handle it—which you _can._ ”  
  
“ _Or_ he anticipates failure,” Elsa pointed out, lips thinning into a grim line.  
  
“Uhhh, the King's a pretty proper guy, but I wouldn't bet that even somebody like him would get a kick out of ruining his daughter's birthday,” Jack countered and _seriously, am I defending the King?_ (Whatever it took to get her down to the study—that was all.) “He probably just wants to know the decision just as badly as you do! So you can get on with it?”  
  
“What if he says no?” Elsa whispered, imploring Jack through the mirror's reflection. It was strange, and a little unsettling, to stand so near and feel her so close, and to see her eyes, so afraid, staring up at him from cold glass. “What if it's not enough?”  
  
“ _Elsa_ ,” he demanded, half-delirious with glee, half-petulant through a whine. “I haven't seen even so much as a snowflake in the last three months. Trust me—it's enough.”  
  
In Jack's opinion—  
  
It was _too_ much.

. * * * .

The walk to her father's study was in complete and total silence, which just about nearly chased Jack out of his damn mind.  
  
There was only one open chair available in the study, of course, so Jack tried to find a nice perch on his own: he considered sitting on her father's grand, opulent desk, to be funny (and quickly decided against it), then tried pacing the floor off to the side (but that only made Elsa more agitated), and he considered the old standby of his Shepherd’s staff (but it was awkward, trying to watch from that high up), so eventually he settled where he might have normally, at the cushioned bench near the window, where he was clearly in Elsa's line of sight, but not so much as to cause a distraction. (And also, he realized a bit belatedly, where any draft would seem natural...)  
  
It was actually a lot more boring than he'd have thought.  
  
Mostly, all they did was talk. About normal, mundane things, like how her studies were progressing and how she was enjoying her latest book. Her gloves were tucked away in her bedroom drawer, along with the other fifty or so pairs she possessed but hardly ever wore and seriously, had her father really not noticed that they weren't really the most practical of gifts, when it came down to it? (At this point, Elsa could probably renounce her royal title and open up a lovely little glove shop in the forest.) She poured and sipped tea with steady hands, and smiled and nodded and contributed to the conversation with eloquent, insightful comments, and asked thought-provoking questions, and really, if Jack started to drift off a bit, he didn't think that anyone could really blame him. His interest perked up a bit when topics started veering toward politics, especially of the alliance with the kingdom of Corona—who was apparently still hoping to find a long-lost Princess? (It sounded like the girl had been missing for over a decade, and that the kingdom would soon have no choice but to go into mourning... He made a mental note to ask Bunny about it later.)  
  
Jack had actually resorted to singing old men's revolutionary drinking songs in his head—not that he'd _known_ any for his own sake, back in the day, because his mother would have sooner rinsed out his mouth with what little precious soap they had than let him taste a drop of ale, and it had only occurred to him, three or so centuries later, why something like that would scare her, would send her into mournful silence in the darkest corners of their little house—when he realized with a jolt that Elsa was actually leaving, having already been dismissed.  
  
She dared not send him any sort of signal, lest her parents misunderstand—which was quite possible, when communicating with an invisible friend—but he could see from the stiffness of her jaw a clear, incredulous, impatient sign of, _Jack—let's go!_  
  
More or less.  
  
Elsa had already left the room and rounded the corner by the time he came to, and he shot off the bench like a rocket toward the door, slipping out just as the wood closed shut. (He realized a half-second too late, that the window wasn't open, and that his blast of draft was probably a little suspicious, but whatever, it was January and Elsa was out of the room and _holy shit, Elsa—_ )  
  
Jack raced to catch up with her—already halfway down the hall—without alarming her—she knew he was following, anyway, like always—and without alerting her to the fact that he hadn't really been listening, and that he didn't _know_ —  
  
“ _Elsa_ ,” he breathed, when he couldn't take it any longer, when they'd rounded the next corner into a deserted hall. He came to a mind-shaking halt in front of her, next to a window that spanned nearly the entire height of the wall, and wow, it was incredible, how blank her face was, impassive with moonlight and shock, eyes bright with incredulousness and _holy fuck—_  
  
“Elsa—”  
  
“I did it,” she breathed, and life came flooding back into her face instantly, a sharp stab of breath and a rush of realization, and she nearly stumbled—but Jack caught her wrist of her sleeve, just in time. He steadied her, and willed the pounding in his chest to ease— _then gave up_ —and soon his breaths were coming short and rapid in the space between him— _like hers_ —only _his_ left frost upon the glass, and hers— _hers did not_ —and before he could think twice about it, Jack had gripped both of her arms and twirled her around, lifting them both clear off the floor. A breath of laughter escaped her, delirious in her disbelief, in her happiness, and her hands shot down to take hold of his arms, to balance herself as he spun her around once more, and when they both touched down to the ground, Jack still felt as if he were flying.  
  
“Holy _shit,_ Elsa!” Jack hissed, eyes wide with—yeah, whatever— _Wonder_. She didn't even hear his foul language, or _care_ , which was— “You did it!”  
  
“I did it!” she echoed, even more breathless than before, though whether that was from the twirling or the realization—he couldn't tell. Maybe both. Probably both. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed, and this time, she did lean into the glass. Her hands pressed themselves over her heart.  
  
Jack Frost couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this happy.  
  
“Would you hold it against me if I said, 'I told you so'?” he grinned.  
  
She smiled at him like he'd never seen before, all bright light and relief, short of breath and _happy_ , like she was glowing. Like her magic was alight beneath her skin—and okay, not the best impression to give off, after having just convinced her parents that she was capable of existing in the world as if her magic _didn't_ exist—but she _looked_ magical, like—like she was _hopeful,_ for the first time in so many years. Like she was truly, blissfully happy.  
  
For the first time in all the years that Jack had known her.  
  
“Thank you,” was her answer, a breathless whisper that set his heart bursting from his chest. _Thank you,_ his mind echoed, a thousand times over. _Thank you_.  
  
His tongue felt thick with all of things he wanted to say.

( _This isn't what you need. This is what your father thinks you need.) (Because the world isn't ready for somebody as special as you.)_

( _I didn't do anything—this was all you_.) ( _I'm just a Guardian._ )

( _I'm_ your _Guardian.)_  
  
( _And I would do just about anything, if you'd smile at me like that again._ )

.

.

.

.

.

.

.  
  
. * * * .  
  
“So,” he said quietly, his smirk too gleeful to be _truly_ mischievous.  
  
(For now.)  
  
“It looks like we're gonna have a party...”

. * * * .

 


	53. - a tizzy -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/18/14_. Two for today! :) Another list! This one might be a little too soon for my liking (we just had another one a few chapters before this), but it wouldn't let me write it any other way. :P And I like lists, so.
> 
> [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)!

_. * * * ._  
  
 _\- a tizzy -_  
  
. * * * .  
  
Eight reasons why helping a Princess with secret magical powers  
prepare for her Sweet Sixteenth birthday bash  
was a lot fucking harder than he thought it would be.  
  
. * * * .

1\. The official announcement was made a week later, and the kingdom literally went into a tizzy.  
  
Nobody seemed to much mind that the ball was an entire year away—nor that none of the townspeople would be invited to this small, intimate affair—nope, not the slightest bit resentful, in actuality, because it was a _ball_ and it was the first that Arendelle had seen in nearly two decades, and _think of the gowns and the trade and the people!_ Visitors from other kingdoms, royal guests from across the seas, fresh imports and elegant finery, soft music and dancing—the castle would be alive with celebration, a bright light amidst the harsh winter, and _the young Princess, why—she must be growing so beautiful!_ It was enough to occupy their thoughts for many months, and seriously, Jack was a fan of a party as much as the next Guardian (unless he was standing next to North, in which case—), but if he had to hear the word _tulle_ one more time, he was gonna frickin' flip.  
  
2\. The evening before, the King and Queen had made a more private announcement at dinner. Elsa was taking her meal alone in her room—all while contemplating the newest rote of laws concerning the scholarship of education, _just some light reading material, yeah, right_ —and bade Jack to visit the dining hall, to see how the inhabitants of the castle would take the news. (And, more specifically—her sister.) The announcement was met with a round of delighted gasps and soft squeals of pleasant surprise... but after the Queen pulled a small, starry-eyed Princess aside, sometime after dessert, twelve-year-old Anna retired early to her bedroom, and shut the door behind her.  
  
(Elsa asked, later that night, how Anna was doing. Jack lied.)  
  
3\. Over the next couple of weeks, Elsa was just as much of a control freak as ever. And it was understandable, on multiple levels—and even encouraged, on others—but it made for a really difficult time for Jack, because what little leeway he had with Fun was becoming even less and less with each passing day. (Her studies occupied nearly all her waking hours, so that her marks remained perfect. Her dress was neatly pressed and wrinkle-free. There was never a single hair out of place, and the gloves remained on, always.) It wasn't all tiresome, though, because all the nonsense _was_ for an important cause, and when Elsa _did_ eventually let loose, every so often—like when she took a swipe at him with a slipper, or they laughed until their sides were in stitches, or she cursed _frostbite_ beneath her breath—it made it all the more special. ( _All the more worth it_ , but he never said that out loud.)  
  
4\. Sometimes, during all the endless planning and preparation for the ball—which took place every week or so in the King's study, for after-supper tea, oftentimes with a fresh new pair of elegant gloves—Jack had a hard time remembering that her parents couldn't see him. (He'd get so invested in the conversation and then speak out—only to realize that Elsa was the only one who could hear him, and that he probably shouldn't be distracting her, and that he probably wasn't helping by making snarky comments after every suggestion for a hoity-toity dinner menu, or at a funny name on the unrecognizable guest list.) It was in his nature, like instinct, to make Elsa laugh—but this probably wasn't the most appropriate of times. He tried to rein it in and, _most_ of the time, he managed. It wasn't easy.  
  
5\. One afternoon, Elsa commented on how it was _such luck_ that her birthday fell in the dead of winter, so that many of the invited guests would be forced to regretfully decline; fewer people, she joked, would be there to witness her freeze over the dance floor. Jack was not so sure that he liked her newfound sarcasm. (Though really, he didn't have anybody to blame but himself.)  
  
6\. And through the following weeks, Jack caught himself wondering... a lot. He knew that Elsa was typically a quiet personality, who thrived on thought and reflection, but he had to wonder—would she still have turned out this way, if not for her powers? This quiet, reserved, frightened little girl— _but not anymore,_ his mind interrupted, a whisper, triumphant and proud. ( _She's not so frightened, not anymore._ ) Would she still be the Elsa he knew today? This quiet, steady desperation and this perfectionism, this raw power tightly coiled into a single, tiny frame? Even North did not know the true extent of her power.  
  
(Sometimes, when he was certain that he was alone, Jack wondered if they ever would.) _  
  
_It wasn't a game he liked to play— _the what ifs_ —but it'd occurred to him more than once, and as the date of the ball steadily approached, no longer could he pretend that they weren't things he wondered about.  
  
7\. The Queen had spent a great deal of more time with Anna since the announcement of the ball, and in many ways it helped. (And in others, Jack could see it for what it was—a desperate attempt to keep the innocence of _one_ daughter, at least—the happiness and joy of a Princess who was in danger of slipping through the cracks.) True to his promise— _one of the only that he kept, for Elsa_ —Jack visited Anna almost as often as he visited her. (And it was honestly getting a bit easier, sort of, because most of the time Elsa was too busy with future-Queen stuff to really pay him the attention he craved, and even though he liked just simply being in her company, no matter what she was doing, he figured he would probably work himself better into her favor if he had good news to share. And if he stopped pestering her so much while she was doing important regal stuff. Maybe.)  
  
So Jack tailed around as Anna and her mother read stories each night, always so hesitant to render himself invisible— _always—_ but left without much choice. They read fairy tales and folklore, with adventure and romance and mystery and, more often than not, the power of true love. They were actually pretty good, too, and Jack wasn't ashamed to admit this. (Still. Considering the slightly embarrassing context of just who it was reading the stories—and who was being read to—Jack desperately hoped that Bunnymund wouldn't ever find out about it. Or North. Or Tooth or Sandy or essentially anybody.)  
  
And the Queen's fairy tales, Jack noticed, rarely mentioned a rather key ingredient: magic.  
  
( _Sorcery_.)  
  
The ball was likewise rarely mentioned, though Anna became obsessed with the idea of them, of love at first sight and forbidden romance, of dancing and passion and connection coming alight with the force of a single first look. She and mother giggled the early night hours away, the strong Queen and her darling little girl, and Anna started to get it into her head that, one day, she would find a whirlwind romance of her own. A love that was true, and powerful, in a land of summer and sunshine and doors that were open, not closed.  
  
8\. The topic of potential courting and marriage came up occasionally from the more gossipy villagers, but Jack always shook his head with incredulous exasperation and kept on floating by. They, obviously, did not know Princess Elsa of Arendelle.

( _But they would_ , he reminded himself with a smile. _And soon_.)  
  
. * * * .


	54. - making light -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/18/14_. Last one for the day! I've been waiting for this one for a while. :) It's probably one of my Top 5 favorites.
> 
>  **EDIT:** Oh my GOD, I think I actually FORGOT TO MENTION THIS, SOMEONE MADE A HEART-STOPPINGLY GORGEOUS JELSA FANVIDEO WITH THIS FIC AS INSPIRATION"
> 
> 「Jelsa」 「Jelsa」 ａｓ ｉｎ ｌｏｖｅ ｗｉｔｈ ｙｏｕ ａｓ ｉ ａｍ ;  
>  Editor: [Artoriious](http://artoriious.tumblr.com/post/79324010520/jelsa-as-in-love-with-you-as-i-am-editor)  
> " _…I spent the past couple mornings reading this one fic that I found and it’s pretty much the greatest thing I’ve read in awhile (I rarely read fics anyway so me getting to the latest chapter is an achievement in itself), if therentyoupay ever sees this I hope you finish the fic!_ ”
> 
> I'm still not over it. 
> 
> ;________________;
> 
> ~~I'll never be over it.~~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- making light -_  
  
. * * * .

  
He was still not entirely convinced that this was in his job description.  
  
. * * * .

“Jack, _please_ ,” she was asking him, while he was doing his best at a bang-up job of trying not to let his face display too much of just how he really felt. **  
  
**Which was something between a light, tingling nervousness and deeply-rooted, incapacitating panic.

“ _Jack!”_  
  
“ _Elsa!_ ” he laughed, because he still had this terrible habit of really laying it on thick—the cockiness and the carefree indifference—when he didn't know how else to handle something.  
  
Especially when that something was learning how to waltz.  
  
“Jack, this is _serious_ ,” she tried to scold him, and it was working, so he held tight to the post of her bed and let himself fall in a wide-sweeping arc, if only to give himself a moment to regain his composure. Somewhat. “ _Jack_ ,” she called again, and this time he looked up and grinned, laughing genuinely at the exasperation on her face.  
  
“Oh, come on,” Jack scoffed, just short of cajoling. “It's just a bunch of fancy footsteps in a stuffy ballroom. How hard can it be?”  
  
Her chin lowered, shifting the rest of her expression into what Jack decided was one hell of a Queen face. The slanted brows were a nice touch, he noted, then gulped.  
  
“If it's so easy,” she responded tightly, striding closer to where he still clung to the post, now possibly for dear life. “Why won't you learn it with me?”  
  
He wasn't entirely keen on her assumption that he would have to _learn_ it—that he didn't already _know_ something—and was halfway through a defensive explanation in his mind before the rest of his brain caught up and reminded him that he most certainly, in fact, did _not_ know how to waltz. And had never had an urge to change that. Which was why—which was _precisely_ why—he was resisting her 'request' so fully in the first place. Guardian or no.  
  
This was _not_ in the job description.  
  
He was certain now.

“Jack Frost,” Elsa's voice slipped into his thoughts and _nope,_ it was not a good sign if she was using his full name.  
  
“ _Ugh,_ Elsa, please,” he wrapped his arms around the post, hugging it to his chest in a last-ditch, final attempt at finagling his way out of this one. (Begging? Pleading? Jack Frost was not above such things, not when it came to futile matters such as resisting the urge to bend to Elsa's will.) “These dances are so _boring._ ”

“I wasn't the one who invented them,” she replied primly, stepping forward. She was almost a foot away when she crossed her arms and added, “I'm afraid you'll have to write a strongly-worded letter of complaint elsewhere.”  
  
“Elsa—where I'm from— _nobody_ dances like this anymore. _Nobody._ Well. Except for really talented dancing fanatics, I guess, but even then, it's mostly for the sake of pride and tradition and trophies and cash prizes but _seriously_ , nobody, like—no one.”  
  
“Jack.”  
  
“If you wanna dance— _great_! I've got plenty of dances. In fact—I _love_ to dance. In _fact_ —I'm _good_ at dancing. Stellar. _Impressive_ , even.”  
  
“Jack.”

“I could teach you a million and one dances that would knock your socks off. Okay, so maybe, like— _four_. But the principle is the same. None of those stuffy waltz dances that they're trying to make you learn here, with its boring music and its stuffy hand movements and it's slow-as-mol _asses_ spins and—”  
  
“ _Jack—_ ”  
  
“Seriously, the last dance you want to learn is one of those high-brow, prim-and-proper numbers that have all the stuffy, boring aristocrats twirling miserably about the same stuffy ballroom.”

“ _Jack Frost_ ,” Elsa said, this time with considerably greater warning, enough to halt him in his tracks. “In case you've forgotten... I am _one_ of those stuffy, boring aristocrats.”

( _But that was the thing. She was—  
—and she wasn't. _ )

“ _Ugh_ ,” Jack Frost moaned and, with great melodrama, tossed himself to the edge of her bed, bouncing along the forgiving springs of the mattress. “Do not remind me.”  
  
It was only a slight surprise, then, when he felt two gloved hands gently, firmly take hold of both his wrists, and yank violently upward.  
  
He was on his feet just before his staff hit the floor, and then he was blinking down into the determined eyes of a certain young, determined Princess. “Jack Frost,” she said, in a no-nonsense tone that told him, quite clearly, that the jig was up. ( _Ohh, North would be proud of that pun._ He was going to have to save it for—) Holding firmly onto his wrists so that there would be no escape, Elsa pinned him straight in the eyes, and launched into what was sure to be the most effective guilt trip to date.

“Jack,” she said quietly, with the big blue eyes that he had a terrible track record of saying _no_ to. “I am supposed to be preparing for my introduction into society, and—in case you haven't noticed—I am terrified.”  
  
Against his will, Jack's eyes flicked down to his wrists, to where her fingers gripped tight to his sleeves. There were at least two layers of fabric separating their skin, between the gloves and the sleeves of his hoodie, but he could feel her cold hands, probably growing even colder inside their protective cages. She wasn't letting go.  
  
“Elsa,” he whispered, by way of apology.  
  
“I appreciate you making light of the situation,” she swallowed, and dammit, was he allowed _nothing? (No more secrets?_ She could see right through him—all his tricks, all his games, all his tactics—and sometimes, he wondered, _what was the point of trying to hide them_ , if she was just going to figure it all out anyway, on her own?)

( _Though, Jack acknowledged, not for the first time, that maybe he wasn't quite as unpredictable as he might like to think.  
And it wasn't like he had very many secrets left to keep, anyway._ )

“But I hardly know what to do,” Elsa whispered. “I want to... At this ball, I think I—I might _actually_ have an opportunity to enjoy myself... if my fear doesn't get in the way.”  
  
Jack's throat was awfully thick, all of a sudden. He couldn't have spoken, even if he'd had the words to try.

“I mean, the attention will all be on me... What foolish traditions, aren't they?” she huffed suddenly, surprising him, and Jack found himself twisting his wrists in her grasp, until his fingers were clasped around her arms, bracing her just as much as he was letting her brace herself. “To have a celebration like this—such a selfish, narcissist concept, isn't it? Meanwhile, it's plagued with underlying politics and protocol and ulterior motives, all the way through.”  
  
Jack gave her arms a little squeeze. For lack of anything better to say, he opted for— _as she'd called it_ —making light.  
  
“You aristocrats sure know how to throw a party,” he said softly, and smirked, just the teeniest bit.  
  
Elsa glanced up at him, then, a little exasperated, but mostly grateful, and Jack was glad that he'd said it.  
  
“Sixteenth birthday,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Funny, isn't it? That I will suddenly be eligible for marriage, but won't be of age to rule a kingdom for yet another five years... but that's another story, all on its own. And here I am, expected at sixteen to dance with all of the eligible gentlemen in the room, and to demonstrate honor and pride for my kingdom. ( _Jack_. Stop making that face. Thank you.) So, as you know, I am in serious need of practice and, due to an unmentionable, unspeakable condition that has perpetually kept me from making a wide circle of friends, I am strangely in need of a dancing partner.”  
  
“You're serious about this,” Jack deadpanned, and played along.  
  
Elsa smirked, a playful smile letting him know that she knew she'd won, and said, “Always.”

Slowly, Jack's own smirk leaked out as well. “Ugh. _Fine._ But not now. Tomorrow, when I get back from some other stuff. And then afterwards, I get to teach you how to dance _my_ way.”  
  
“Try not to get too far ahead of yourself, Jack—you haven't even started a winter's waltz yet, and you may very well be terrible.”  
  
Jack gaped at her. “Did you always have this much sass? Whatever happened to the sweet-tempered little girl who used to listen to my advice and would never, _ever_ consider back-talking or making fun of me?”

“Jack, you are the _Guardian_ of Fun. I think there are some allowances in that.”

“Touché. But still. You used to look up to me, you know.”  
  
“Yes. I've gotten taller.”  
  
Jack's look was very, very dry.  
  
“I bet you think you're funny,” he accused, smirking. It helped, though, when Elsa's true smile slipped past her careful mask of pleasant patience. She pulled away her hands at last, and adjusted the edges of her gloves.  
  
“Just imagine how much more reason I shall have to admire you when you become my Savior of the Dance.”  
  
“Okay, now you're just trying to butter me up, and it's not working.”  
  
“Isn't it?”  
  
Actually, it was. “You could try laying on the flattery a bit more and seeing how it works, but I'm not making any promises.”  
  
“Oh, _Jack_ ,” Elsa laughed, and he joined her, until, “You never do.”

. * * * .


	55. - winter's waltz -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/19/14_. Is this my favorite? ;___________; I don't know anymore. I think they're all my favorites. 
> 
> Now please excuse me while I go listen to “[Winter's Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gb-wb6PYldk)” a bajillion times ~~and cry over the fact that Jack Frost does not canonically exist as Elsa's Guardian~~ don't mind me.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- winter's waltz -_  
  
. * * * .

“You're late.”  
  
This was his greeting: a knowing look, a cross of the arms, and an impatient smirk shining visibly in her eyes.  
  
Jack cleared his throat and leaned forward over the ledge of the open window, setting his foot firmly on the cushioned bench. He tossed his staff to the side as he climbed into the room, and summoned a gentle breeze to ensure that it floated its way against the wall. “Am I?” he quipped innocently, and tried not to balk when the seam of a pant leg along his calf caught on a splinter in the wood. Cursing his terrible luck—today was not the day to appear any more graceless than usual—Jack craftily steadied himself against the wall with the flat of his forearm and peered down at her slyly, as if he'd planned this awkward, high-kick stretching of his leg—still stuck to the upper ledge of the lower window compartment—all along. “But you are a forgiving dance partner, no?” he quipped, and gave his leg a subtle twitch. He felt the gentle tug of thread against the splintered wood, on which it'd surely caught.  
  
 _Frostbite_.  
  
“We shall see,” Elsa replied cryptically; there was a teasing light in her eyes, which told Jack that she'd either already forgiven him, or she'd already started plotting her revenge. Maybe both?  
  
 _Hey—at least I'm here!_ And it wasn't like he'd ever really given her an expected time frame, either, for his return. Jack guessed that she suspected that he'd been stalling, which meant that, okay, so maybe he _was_ a little later than he could have been— _but with good reason!_  
  
It didn't matter though, apparently, because there still wasn't a whole lot of forgiveness for showing up late and _arghhh,_ he was going to have to remember that.  
  
She then turned away and crossed the room to a small table near the vanity, where she began fiddling with some archaic-looking music player, the likes of which Jack Frost had never seen. He wasn't paying very close attention, however, because he was still struggling to disentangle himself without ruining his pants. He knew how to do some simple mending, of course, for he'd been the master of snagging seams and tearing holes through cloaks— _so much that his mother couldn't fix them all by herself_ , he remembered that—but it was such a hassle, honestly, and sewing himself a hoodie had taken _forever_. He'd promised himself, right after, that he wouldn't even so much as _look_ at a needle for another decade, and he really wasn't in any hurry to—  
  
“Coming, Jack?”  
  
“Yep!” he replied quickly, an unconvincing near-squeak of unhurried nonchalance, and in a moment desperation, gave a fast, merciless tug while Elsa's back was turned. _Dammit_ , he cursed, frowning down at the small rip along the seam of his newly-freed inner-calf. The bindings there would hold the fabric in place, and hopefully keep it from fraying, but it still meant that he would have to take care of this nonsense sooner or later, and it did little good to his already precarious mood. “Coming,” Jack grumbled, with considerable less pep, and stumbled forward off the bench.  
  
“All right,” Elsa said to herself quietly, with quite the determined air. He was a mere foot or so behind her as she finished up the final adjustments to the music player, and then gradually, a soft, flowing waltz was sifting through the room. Elsa spun around to face him, and Jack nearly stumbled back from the shock; he'd been so focused on the hole in his pants that her quick movement had thrown him off.  
  
Elsa peered up at him, dubiously. “Are you...?“ Then, as if thinking better of it, Elsa pressed her lips together thoughtfully and tried a grateful smile instead. “Thank you, again, Jack. I know this isn't something you're very much looking forward to, but I really appreciate it.”  
  
He resisted a snort.  
  
“Nonsense,” Jack replied good-naturedly, in the hope that a lighter mood would eventually follow. He might have overdone it, a little. “Twirling around aimlessly is one of my favorite pastimes.”  
  
“You are going to continue to be difficult, aren't you?” she asked dryly, brows slanting in wayward un-surprise.  
  
“That _is_ my other favorite pastime.”  
  
“Very well, then,” Elsa hummed—the briefest flash of a tell-tale smirk—and then she stepped forward, and she was suddenly in his space, and Jack vaguely remembered that there was music playing.  
  
She was a lot closer than he'd thought she'd be.  
  
“Father has been teaching me the basic steps,” she explained without preamble, and took his left hand in her right. His right hand was suddenly on her waist, and Jack was left with the rather disoriented feeling that he had not been the one to put it there. He continued to blink down at her, but this time, the blinking cleared away the haze, and when he looked down at her now, he was actually able to see her clearly, her pale face and blue eyes, and realize that her left hand was on his shoulder. ( _But wait,_ that didn't seem comfortable—she was left-handed, wasn't she?) “Mother tells me that this stance will start to feel natural,” Elsa added, standing straight and tall, though she didn't sound like she believed it much, herself.  
  
Jack allowed himself a glance down at the hand on his shoulder— _soft and relaxed_ —and her other hand, clasped in his own. She _appeared_ comfortable—or better yet, maybe, _well-rehearsed_ —but Jack could tell, clearly, that she wasn't. Comfortable.  
  
“When?” he snarked, cocking a brow, and shifted his arm, so that the line of their connected hands rose higher above the ground, more properly in place. Elsa peered up at him in surprise, and he tried not to gloat as he took a first, fluid step, and said, “When you become a full-fledged aristocrat and lose all sense of humor?”  
  
He kept his face completely neutral—an almost impossible task, when the more natural urge was to literally leap with joy, or strut, or take a few flips about the room—and proceeded to waltz them across the floor, in perfect harmony with the soft melody. He felt his chest bursting with pride, but shuffled it back down, lest he swell up so much that he forget himself. _1-2-3_ , _1-2-3_ , he counted, bringing the rhythm back to the forefront of his mind. It'd been easy to listen to the music and follow along instinctively, but he was letting himself get distracted— _cocky—_ and this was one thing he especially didn't want to mess up.  
  
Elsa's face was priceless.  
  
“How did you...? You told me that you'd never waltzed before,” Elsa mused quietly, torn between amusement and accusation. She'd fallen into step naturally, mirroring his movements with her own. Her chin was held high, just like it would be at her ball, and her stance remained in place— _locked, strong, but not stiff_. “And here I'd been preparing myself to teach you how to lead me.”  
  
“Well, there's something I never thought I'd hear you say.”  
  
“Indeed... What other secrets have you been keeping, Jack Frost?” Elsa smiled, and this time, both the accusation and amusement rang much stronger. It unsettled her, that she'd been so sure of something about him, and he'd proved her wrong. Jack could tell.  
  
He bit down a smile of his own. _Not many_ , he thought to himself, remembering his pondering from just the day before. “I prefer to think of them as _surprises_ ,” he insisted, then smoothly changed direction, grinning when she'd caught onto his movement just before the shift. She let him turn her about the room, and it was becoming all the more difficult to control the swelling of his head, the longer she looked up at him with that curious sort of awe.  
  
(It'd been a while, Jack acknowledged, since she'd looked at him like that.)  
  
“How did you learn?” Elsa asked, so raw in her curiosity that it almost sounded like a demand, and Jack took a moment to refocus on his movements— _to make them seem second nature, nearly mindless_ —so that when he glanced down at her and answered, it was between seamless, unhindered steps.  
  
“The same way anybody does,” Jack said through an air of easy nonchalance. “Through practice.”  
  
And by 'practice', of course, Jack actually meant, 'over eighteen hours of practice on the main floor of North's overcrowded workshop, where North had bombastically organized an entire class of dancing yetis and demonstration elves on an impromptu work break'. If Jack had known that a simple, downtrodden confession of _I need to learn how to waltz_ was going to prompt an entire overblown production of calling an emergency meeting and summoning all the other Guardians from the rest of the globe, then—needless to say—he probably wouldn't have opened his big, damn mouth.  
  
Still. It was nice that Toothiana had talked to him, at least. Bunny had flat out _refused_ to dance—(“ _It is late March! Do you have any idea when Easter is, you jolly rancher? Do you even care?”_ )—but that had meant very little, once three or four elves had gotten a hold of him. Sandy was a natural dancer, and he and Toothiana spun about the room the entire night, floating on a glowing river of sand. Everyone had a different say about the right way to waltz, of course, and most of it was really good advice, if not a little overbearing.  
  
(“ _Be STRONG, Jack! STRONG, like mountain!_ ”)

( _Remember to keep your head up. Stay confident, and give her space_. _Feel the music, but listen to the beat. She will follow your lead, if you prove yourself a capable leader; earn her trust._ )  
  
(“ _A proper gentleman always asks to dance first._ ”  
  
“ _But..._ I'm _not actually the one going to be dancing at the ball. This is just to help her practice_.”  
  
He hadn't felt like reminding her that he was also sort of the only choice in dancing partners that Elsa really had, but then Toothiana had smiled at him before he could finish the thought, and his head was still trying to wrap itself around it, the fact that she was actually looking at him, when she smiled at him warmly, like she used to, and said, “ _It doesn't hurt to ask_.”)  
  
And here he was, some twenty or so hours later, gracefully spinning Elsa about the room, and feeling like he might explode with the pride of a mission very much accomplished. Even if he'd had to dance with seven or eight yetis to get here.  
  
Of course, he _hadn't_ actually asked Elsa to dance, he realized belatedly.  
  
But he also figured that her placing his hand on her hip had seemed like invitation enough, at the time. He wondered vaguely if Tooth would have been disappointed.  
  
“You know,” Elsa began, with a thoughtful tilt to her head. She anticipated another change in direction, and shifted to accommodate his movements, already so attuned to his line of thinking. “I happened to read in a certain journal that our good friend _North_ , in addition to being an infamous swordsman, is markedly well-versed in a number of fine dances...”  
  
Jack tried to mask his face into something like a balance of both bored and surprised. “Is he now?” he muttered, and was rather surprised, himself, at the latent streak of bitterness that clipped his tone. To his dissatisfaction, Elsa let out a soft peal of laughter.  
  
“And apparently, so are you,” she quipped, a clear taunt through a placating lilt. Jack felt himself slightly mollified—but only slightly. “What a coincidence. We should write the authors of your books, and tell them to add this to the list of your many powerful talents.”  
  
“Powerful,” Jack echoed slowly, and let his smirk spread wider as the world rolled about his tongue. “I like the sound of that.”  
  
Then, on an ambitious whim, he twirled her under his arm— _curling out, almost beyond his reach_ —then spun her inward, quickly, until she was back in his hold. When she returned, she was smiling up at him, and Jack found himself that he, too, was breathless, as if he'd been the one spinning instead.  
  
“Powerful, indeed,” she mused, obviously laughing at him with her eyes, but he didn't mind. “Twirling around aimlessly _is_ one of your favorite pastimes,” she reminded him, and Jack continued to smirk good-naturedly, even as all his thunder was swept out from beneath him. “Which is precisely why, Jack Frost, _Mysterious Waltzing Extraordinaire_ —you will have to teach me the other dances you spoke of so highly, after the ball.”  
  
“What?” Jack's brows furrowed—and he almost missed his next step. “Why not now?”  
  
“Because I need to concentrate,” Elsa explained simply, which, in a weird sort of effect, actually made it harder for him to focus on what Elsa was saying. “When I have managed to take a few turns about the dance floor in a crowded ballroom— _without_ freezing the refreshments, or gluing my dance partner's well-polished shoes to the floor—then, and only then, can you teach me all the sprightly dances you know best.”  
  
“Sprightly?” Jack repeated, lip curling as he attempted to maintain a straight face for the good of the game. (It was still a prize—a special, private victory, when their banter was able to make Elsa laugh first.) “Do I seem sprightly to you?”  
  
“For a sprite, yes.”  
  
“I resent that.”  
  
“You may,” Elsa quipped, dangerously close to laughing—but not _quite_ yet, not close enough. “Though I must admit, despite all your liveliness—or perhaps, _because_ of it—I was concerned that I might fall victim to the misstep of your untimely feet.”  
  
“If anyone had cause for concern, your highness, I'd argue that it should have been _me_. Just think of those slippers. My poor, bare feet wouldn't have stood a chance.”  
  
“I am quite sure your feet would have survived, bare or not; large as they are, they could certainly withstand a few, cautious missteps of mine without serious injury.”  
  
“Says the one who is still wearing shoes... You know, the elves actually tried to make me wear some once, in the beginning.” Jack frowned at the memory. _What a day_. “Crazy,” he muttered. “The whole nutty lot of them.”  
  
Elsa's eyes widened, brimming with question. “ _No_ ,” she whispered, as an unrestrained smile broke through, powerful in its intensity, weightless in its good humor. “They wouldn't!” she argued, but her laughter was already threatening to bubble over.  
  
And so Jack recounted the tale once more, in great, solemn detail—the story of how he ended up on the floor of the North Pole's toyshop in a sack, and was welcomed with a racket fanfare of trumpets blaring in his ears, and elves shoving ridiculous, puffy, silver belled-slippers at his feet—until Elsa was holding tight to him as they twirled breathlessly about the room, clutching at his shoulder for balance and support, though Jack, in reality, was the only one still truly dancing.

. * * * .

 


	56. - to dance -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/24/14_. So busy! I didn't have much time to myself last week, and then even when I did, I didn't feel like writing very much. Hopefully I can get into the groove again soon!
> 
> This chapter is one of my favorites for a very special reason... and you'll soon see why! :)
> 
> Another huge thanks to all those who have been leaving kudos and comments. <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- to dance -_  
  
. * * * .  
  
.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
_. April ._  
  
. * * * .

It was already well into spring when the King found time out of his busy schedule to dance with his daughter again. ( _Running a kingdom is rather difficult,_ Elsa had defended, _when its leaders rarely leave the castle grounds._ ) Admittedly, maintaining long-distance alliances through emissaries was a time-consuming art that her mother and father were still trying to master. ( _I don't blame them_ , she'd said. _Not for anything._ )  
  
Jack hadn't given a response.  
  
Because as time went on... he wasn't sure he really sure how much he believed her.  
  
Anyway, after only the first few steps of a classic waltz, the King was astonished by her natural finesse and grace, as well as the speed and surety with which Elsa had made herself familiar with such an integral part of their kingdom's history. ( _Such self-discipline_ , he'd complimented, gazing down with fatherly pride. _You are truly a quick study, Elsa_.)  
  
And Jack agreed with him, of course. The credit for learning so quickly and so thoroughly was much her own.  
  
But he still wondered what the King would think, if he knew the truth.

**.**

.  
  
.

.

. * * * .  
  
. May .  
  
. * * * .

In the months leading up to Elsa's sixteenth birthday, Jack gradually began to allow himself to relax. Elsa was going to be _sixteen_ , and she still believed in him.  
  
It should have been impossible.  
  
Toothiana suggested during a meeting one day that it may be somehow connected to the trolls, and that witnessing their memory spells had awakened a greater level of cognition, like she'd unlocked some hidden, special part of her brain. Or even a wider space in her memory box, perhaps, though neither she nor Jack were very sold on that idea, since Elsa rarely called upon her Memories as it was. Sandy had a theory that it was because of her magic, but Bunny had his doubts on that front—(“ _Elsa isn't the first special assignment to be gifted with elemental powers. There are other children who host magic within them, and who have forgotten us. No other special assignment has ever held on for this long.”_ )—and it still seemed like a bit of a sensitive topic, so Jack wisely didn't pry.  
  
Curious, though, he might have been.  
  
The truth of the matter was that no one could really explain where Elsa's powers had come from, or just how powerful she was, or why she—out of _so many_ others—still believed in them. He was beginning to realize that he may never get the answers to his questions.  
  
And Jack couldn't really explain it, but he was beginning to no longer mind.  
  
( _It was disappearing slowly... the endless fear that one day, he would spend hours outside her window, before finally realizing that the reason she hadn't opened it yet, the reason she didn't hear him knocking, the reason she couldn't hear him calling her name—_ )  
  
Without all that weight on his shoulders, Jack was closer to becoming the Guardian he'd always striven to be, full of pranks and jokes and laughter—but without all the doubt.  
  
Without all the Fear.  
  
He took enjoyment in his work again, which was busier than ever. His weeks consisted of snow days and friendly blizzards, popping into Bunny's warren unannounced (but by no means unexpected), nighttime sky-races with Sandy through the clouds, and the occasional visit to Minnesota to check up on Jamie at college. ( _Go, Gophers!)_ His evenings were almost always occupied with a trip to Arendelle, where the castle continued on as his regular stomping grounds.  
  
He knew its schedule almost to the T—even Anna's, which was at times as sporadic as it was whimsical—and could navigate through meandering servants and candlelight halls and small, intimate mealtimes like clockwork. Kristoff was doing well, too, though he only saw him every once in a while. Jack loved ice, but Kristoff— _loved—_ ice, and Jack never quite got over the look on his rosy, snow-bitten face when he left him an extra helping in the mountains, so Jack made sure to visit whenever he could.  
  
And though they were well beyond the need for rehearsal at that point, he and Elsa spend a good portion of their evenings waltzing about her room.  
  
Because Elsa, as it turned out, rather loved to dance.

.

.

.  
.

. * * * .  
  
_. June ._  
  
. * * * .

“What's that little yellow light?”  
  
Jack had almost missed it; he'd been staring at this globe in Bunny's warren for quite some time now, completely overtaken by its mere existence—its sheer _size_ —and had extended a curious finger in the direction of a bright, fluorescent yellow light, hidden in the small dip of valley between the topographical model of some hefty mountain peaks somewhere in the north. The land masses and bodies of water on this planet looked so different from the other globe sitting in the middle of North's workshop; different shapes, different borders, with countries in names and languages Jack Frost didn't recognize.  
  
Well. Except for one.  
  
There was a little blue light in a small harbor in the North, steady and bright, and he didn't have to know any variations of Old Norse to tell—to _know—_ that it was Arendelle. That it was _Elsa's_ light he was looking at.  
  
But this little yellow one?  
  
“Ah,” Bunny sighed, caught on a wispy smile. His eyes were far-off with Memory when he stared at the yellow light and said, “That's Rapunzel... My one-hundredth special assignment.”  
  
Jack's eyes bulged. “Your _what?_ ”  
  
"Funny how time flies,” Bunnymund mused, sending a sly side glance to Jack below. Almost as if he _knew_ how easily Jack could forget just how old Bunnymund really was. Like. Centuries-old. _Or maybe even millennium...?_  
  
For all those books he'd borrowed for Elsa's benefit, Jack hadn't ever really gotten the whole story.  
  
“Why's it only that bright yellow color? I mean—where's the white light at the center? Like inside Elsa's blue light?”  
  
“It faded,” Bunny answered thoughtfully, then peeked another meaningful glance to the side; Jack only saw this out of the corner of his eye, because he was slowly, uncomfortably starting to comprehend... and he was too much of a coward to look at Bunny straight-on. “It disappeared some years ago, before she'd lost the last of her milk teeth.”  
  
“I'm... I'm sorry,” Jack said quietly, unsure whether he should lower her eyes.  
  
“Don't be,” Bunny replied quickly, almost brusque in his assurance. “Her Belief may have disappeared prematurely, but her Hope did not. And that's what matters, in the end.”  
  
Jack wasn't sure he agreed, but didn't dare say so aloud.  
  
“Her turning point is on the rise as well,” Bunny went on, then raised a single claw to hover at the shimmering light, which Jack could now see was... pulsing slightly? “Fated for this very summer, I reckon... Look at the way it glows.”  
  
“Wait, what? Turning point? What—what does that mean?”  
  
Bunny didn't answer right away, transfixed on the soft, yellow light emitting from a small stretch of land not too far from Arendelle. (Cօɾօղმ, it said.) Finally, he turned back to face him, and explained, more seriously than Jack had ever remembered seeing him, “The thing you have to understand first, Frost, is that every moment in the life of a human is a turning point in itself. Every decision, every day... These details all make up the life that a human leads, but _sometimes—_ there is more than that.” Bunny paused, looking Jack very carefully in the eye. “There's a reason that the Guardians are matched with special assignments in the first place.”  
  
“Yeah, because some kids need a little more support than others,” Jack blurted, unable to describe why there was a tumbling, churning sensation in his gut. His brows furrowed. Bunny wasn't speaking again. “ _Right_?” Jack asked, a little more insistently, then added, almost petulantly, “I mean, that's what you all told me.”  
  
“And it's true,” Bunny agreed, easily, though Jack got the feeling that he wasn't going to like where the rest of that sentence was going. “But ultimately... these unique children will also face greater challenges... and they'll need more from us. The turning points of childhood are different for each. Some may last only a moment, and others... others can last for years. That's when our children will call upon the lessons that we've taught them, whether they remember us or not. Rapunzel will be turning eighteen this year,” Bunny said softly, turning slowly to stare at the pulsing light. “A Guardian can't ever predict these things, but... If these centuries have taught me anything—and if I know Rapunzel—then I'd reckon that she'll be heading up against her Fears soon enough... Or should I say heading _down_ ,” Bunny amended, then smiled, like this was something funny.  
  
But Jack's attention had caught on something else entirely, like a vice.  
  
“Fears?” he demanded, shifting closer to the globe, trying to steal back Bunny's gaze. His bare toes shifted in the soft grass. Jack pressed his feet further into the soil, to remind himself that he was still on the ground.  
  
Bunny turned to him, slowly.  
  
“Yes,” he answered quietly, expression unreadable. “That's how they begin, the turning points. With Fear.”  
  
“Well—how do they end?”  
  
Jack saw Bunny smile—a rare, sage, sad thing—and he almost wished he hadn't asked.  
  
“That depends on the child,” Bunny answered honestly. “And the Guardian.”

. * * * .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks why Rapunzel wasn't paired with Toothiana, Guardian of Memories--there's a reason for that! :) It will be mentioned later on, though I imagine some of you will probably be able to guess it on your own. The answer is deceptively simple. :)


	57. - of lights -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/26/14_. Back with three today! I've had these lined up for a little while, but I wanted to save them to see if I'd end up making any minor changes to details. For all of you who started this story purely because of your interest in Jelsa, I know this might be a little more than you bargained for, and I hope you're still enjoying it even if it's not what you expected! 
> 
> The ball is almost here, but there are a few things that need to be tied together before the party can start. :) You'll see what I mean. 
> 
> Thanks again!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- of lights -_  
  
. * * * .

Apparently, ' _fated for this very summer'_  
was a lot closer than they would have thought.  
  
Like, a _lot_ closer.  
  
Like.  
  
The following week.

. * * * .

  
“Now, _kid_ , remember— _don't_ —”  
  
“I know, I know,” Jack laughed a sigh, and perched himself atop a low-hanging tree branch; he stopped moving, but the butterflies in his gut did not. “Don't touch anything,” he repeated dutifully.  
  
Bunnymund cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was literally going out of his mind.  
  
“Bunny—it will be fine!” Toothiana practically giggled, finding almost as much humor in the Hope Guardian's discomfort as Jack did. “Rapunzel is a smart girl—she can handle herself!”  
  
“I _know_ ,” Bunny answered, a bit snappily, though no one could really fault him for it. “I know.” He started pacing the dirt below, gazing nervously across the harbor, toward the castle.  
  
Toward a little boat on the water, where Bunny's one hundredth special assignment sat in the darkness, with flowers in her magical golden hair. With nervous excitement in her heart.  
  
And a man in her boat, too.  
  
Jack had dedicated himself to reminding Peter Cottontail of that fact all evening.  
  
“I don't like the look of 'im,” Bunny grumbled, as his steps became surly stomps.  
  
“You've barely even _seen_ him,” Toothiana countered slyly. “Though _I_ have... and that _mouth,_ let me tell you—”  
  
 _“Toothiana!_ Now _—is not_ —the time! Gothel is _up_ to something, I know it—”  
  
“No, no, I'm interested,” interrupted Jack with a devious smirk. “Go on, Tooth. Tell us more about the quality of this Flynn Ryder's mouth.”  
  
“If you don't _can_ it, Frost, the only shape _your_ mouth is gonna be able to make is—”  
  
“Come, Bunny, you're only going to stress yourself out even _more_. We'll put an end to our teasing, all right? Now listen—Gothel will get what's coming to her, however long it takes, and Flynn Ryder is a nice boy, even if he is a thief, and anyway, _North_ was once a thief, if you recall.”  
  
“Precisely!” Bunny hissed loudly, rounding on her.  
  
"Did North have a mouth like that, too?"  
  
Bunny twisted to glare up at him in the tree. There was a manic look to his eye, and his left ear was _twitching.  
  
_ Violently.  
  
Toothiana rolled right along, ignoring Bunnymund's convulsing, and stared sternly above at— _oops, ah, I, uh, I should probably—_  
  
“Jack—play nice. And if you can't—pretend.”  
  
“I can play nice,” Jack defended, though he didn't put much effort into doing a very convincing job. “I'm just offering a bit of commentary. And commending Bunny on his impressive nerves of steel.”  
  
“ _Oi_ , put a sock in it, flyboy—just wait a year or two and see how well _you_ handle it, yeah?”  
  
Jack laughed it off, then punctuated his point with a backflip over the branch, landing gracefully with a smirk that had Bunny scoffing in disgust.  
  
But even after Jack righted himself, Bunny's words stuck with him.  
  
“Good point, Bunny. Jack, it might be hard to remember it now, but there may come a time when _you_ might appreciate a bit of compassion. It's okay if you're a little antsy yourself—Bunny, you too, obviously—but we're here for _Rapunzel,_ and right now she needs—”  
  
“I AM HERE!” bellowed a voice from behind, before the flash of blue light from a snow globe portal even appeared. A gasping North, dressed in his finest work trousers and suspenders, marched out of the abyss onto the small stretch of rocky beach and gazed up at the dark sky with fierce anticipation. He squinted hard, as if searching for his sleigh. “What did I miss?!”  
  
 _Nothing_ , Sandy replied jovially from the small beach chair he'd conjured out of sand. (At what point had he made sand-popcorn? How did he _eat_ it?) _We're still waiting._  
  
“WAITING?” North bellowed, and Toothiana _shhhh_!-ed him, immediately. With impressive chagrin, North ducked down and tried again, in a dissatisfied whisper, “ _Waiting_? For what?”  
  
“For the lights!” Bunnymund snapped, rearing back on them all, only to resume his frantic pacing once more. “For the Festival of Lights! It's taking longer than normal—the King and Queen should have _released_ them by now! Oh... Oh, _crikey_ , they **—** they wouldn't decided to stop _now,_ would they? Not _this_ year, of all years! Not when we are _so damn close to_ —”  
  
“Bunny—it will be all right!” Toothiana soothed, flitting forward to place a hand on his shoulder. The humor was gone from her voice and Jack's own humor dried out, as his nervous anticipation swelled up and blocked out the wry smirk that he had pasted on his lips. “This is her _eighteenth_ birthday—you, of all creatures, know how hard this has been on them—they are taking their right to mourn,” Toothiana said softly, settling her hand more firmly onto Bunny's shoulder. “They're taking a moment to _Hope_.”  
  
Slowly, in the space of two eternal breaths, Bunny relaxed beneath her touch, and the tension sifted out of his body like it'd melted away.  
  
Jack, for his part, was still holding his breath.  
  
“ _Look!_ ” came North's urgent whisper, still too loud in the silence, but Jack barely heard it.  
  
There, in the highest tier of the castle, was a single floating lantern.  
  
Bunnymund and Toothiana looked up. North stumbled forward, stepping into line with Bunny and Tooth, and Jack stayed high on the branch, transfixed. Sandy's beach chair disintegrated into the beach.  
  
 _One, two_... _Five, seven, eight. Twenty—thirty..._ So slowly they moved, gliding through the air on a summer breeze—and then there were hundreds, maybe thousands, and the sky was alight with moving stars, with warmth, and glowing light.  
  
And Hope.  
  
“It's beautiful,” Toothiana whispered breathlessly, enraptured by the display. “Oh, Bunny... After so many years, she—she's _finally—_ ”  
  
“I know,” Bunnymund whispered, then swallowed hard. Like something was caught in his throat. “I know.”  
  
The lights were everywhere. Glowing beacons of soft, brilliant light, dipping down onto the waves, floating past the endless parade of ships in the harbor. They were glorious, and enchanting, and glowed golden like the light from a Memory Box and— _Jack wondered_ —if maybe, in a way, that's what they were.  
  
Jack gazed down to the beach, where Bunnymund and Toothiana stood side-by-side. (“ _So if she's The Lost Princess and all she needs to do is restore her Memories—then why wasn't Tooth assigned to her?”_ ) So close, they were standing—a solid, united front. A pair of Protectors, hidden in the darkness of a lonely beach at the fringes, part of the magic, yet apart.  
  
Mere on-lookers, to the outside world, if anyone could even see them at all.

  
(“ _Rapunzel has many Guardians... In truth, she could have been assigned to any one of us._  
 _That's usually how it is, you know. You get one of us, yeah—but in truth, you get all of us._  
 _She's a Dreamer and a Wonderer... And she'll unlock her Memories one day, whether it's tomorrow, or ten years from now.”_  
  
 _“So... Then, why Hope?”_  
  
 _“Because sometimes, for Rapunzel—for many children... Hope can be the hardest._  
 _And Toothiana has not accepted an assignment in a long... long time.”_ )

  
“She's really lucky,” Jack whispered, before he realized that it was even a thought. The other Guardians turned to him, surprised, and Jack tried not to shrink into himself. It was a rather stupid, insensitive thing to say— _of_ course _she wasn't lucky, having been stolen away from her family, her title, and locked away in a tower all her life, only to be used, and never loved—_ but in a way... she was, wasn't she? (She _was_ lucky. She _was_ loved.)  
  
And as he looked up at the lights in the sky and thought about it, Jack decided that they already knew what he meant.  
  
Without waiting another moment, Jack carefully floated down from the tree branch, and came to stand beside them on the beach.  
  
Beside all of them.  
  
The others said nothing, but Toothiana smiled, and beckoned him closer. North placed a large hand on his shoulder, heavy and solid, and Sandy looked up from his spot. He offered Jack a warm-hearted double thumbs-up. And Bunny... well, he wasn't looking at Jack, but he thought he saw Bunny smile.  
  
“So now what?” Jack asked quietly, unable to keep his curiosity inside any longer. “What does a child of Hope do after she gets what she's been Dreaming of?”  
  
And this time, when Bunny smiled, Jack could see it clearly.  
  
“It's not over, if that's what you're askin',” Bunny answered, almost teasing in the sudden wake of good-humor. “She's got Dreams, yeah—but there's an entire world that she's never even Dreamed of, and it all belongs to her... Tonight, _one_ of her Dreams was realized.

“And now she'll learn how to make a new one.”

. * * * .

 


	58. - never end -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/26/14_. Second one of the day! :) The next set of the 1sentence challenge because I loooooveee them.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- never end -_  
  
. * * * .

 **#21 – Life**   
He never asked her why she slept at the window... but he liked to think that the reason she was there, almost every night, was because she was waiting for him.  
  
 **#22 – Jealousy**   
“Be patient, Anna... though it may seem like a long time to wait, you too will celebrate your place as Princess of Arendelle—three years will pass more quickly than you think.”   
  
**#23 – Hands**   
She'd earned her parents trust— _through hard work, endless effort, and so much_ time—but never quite enough; birthday ball, or no, increasing responsibility, or no, Elsa could not be trusted to spend time with Anna—not even with her gloves.   
  
**#24 – Taste**   
“Wait, the King is ordering a chocolate _fountain—_ do those even _exist_ here?”   
  
**#25 – Devotion**   
Although she called him by his name almost always, anyways, Jack came to realize that she said his given name when she was happiest, and his full name when she was upset, or teasing, or scolding, or practicing her ever-developing skill of sass; the scary part, he decided, were the times in which she didn't use his name at all.  
  
 **#26 – Forever  
** _To Dream as if Dreaming will never end,_ Sandy smiled ruefully, then shuffled his deck of sand-cards and dealt Jack another hand; Jack Frost couldn't actually remember what question he'd asked him, but even still—this answer stayed with him, for years.  
 **  
#27 – Blood**   
“Look, Momma—another baby tooth fell out and— _oh, oh, look!_ —look at all the bits of gum and blood stuck to it!”  
  
 **#28 – Sickness**   
Elsa, to his knowledge, had never gotten so much as a cold.   
  
**#29 – Melody**   
“Just like— _one_ little ditty or tune or something, _anything,_ doesn't even have to be a real song— pleeeeeeeaaase — just onc e? ”  
  
 **#30 – Star  
** “I thank him sometimes,” Elsa stared up at the Man in the Man, and whispered, “For sending you.”

. * * * .


	59. - the cracks -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/26/14_. Are you ready for the ball? I am. ;) It's up next!
> 
> But first...

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- the cracks -_  
  
. * * * .

  
It was in late November, just barely on the cusp of winter, when the party planning was in full swing, that Jack found Anna outside of Elsa's bedroom.  
  
Elsa, as fate would have it, was still in the library, luxuriating in a rare day of reprieve of freshly-ordered books while Anna was— _supposed to be_ —completing her newest round of assessments in the parlor and yet, _there was Anna,_ right there, pounding her fierce little fists onto Elsa's bedroom door and _what on earth—?  
  
“Elsa!”_ Anna called, gritting the name through her teeth. ( _Only two deciduous left_ , Jack recalled, in an absurd moment of adrenaline-fueled awareness.)  
  
Jack peered around the corner of the wall, eyes sharp and mouth firm, tensed and coiled and ready to spring, bracing himself for the worst— _Is someone hurt? Where is the Queen? And the King?_ _What happened?_  
  
Panic clenched at Jack's chest, and just as he reared back to spring forward, prepared to rush the Princesses to safety, no matter who saw—  
  
“Elsa—I know you're in there!”  
  
—Jack paused.  
  
A strong, warbling voice ( _so fierce in its conviction, so small in its despair_ ) tore from Anna's throat, as her fists rained down upon Elsa's door, without rhyme or rhythm. Jack stood silent, lost.  
  
“You open this door—right now!” Anna demanded, thick and raspy. “I have something to say to you, and you will _listen_ to me! Elsa! _El_ - _sa!_ You're supposed to be my sister!”  
  
A ferocious growl ripped itself from little Anna's throat, and with it, all of her energy. Anna crumpled to the floor, heavy against the hardwood, and Jack nearly forgot himself at the sound of her little body hitting the floor, at the dull sound of her head bumping against the wood. Her little fists fell limp into her lap. Indifferent. Numb.  
  
Exhausted.  
  
( _Thirteen_ , Jack Frost thought blindly, with his stomach twisted and his heart clenched and his throat run dry. _She just turned thirteen in_ —)  
  
“I am _so_ —I am _angry_ with you,” Anna whispered, choking off a sob. “And I _despise_ you. I—I can't stand what you've done to this family, what you've done to _me,_ and _—_ and Mother, who is always sad, no matter what time of day, and Father, who thinks only of you in your room, alone, and... and... aren't you lonely? Aren't you _tired_? Every day, I have knocked— _every_ , day—and sometimes—I can barely imagine your voice.  
  
“You look so... different each time I see you,” Anna confessed, hushed, as her eyes filled with tears. Anna swallowed the lump in her throat, too riled to stop now, and shook her head, determinedly, frustrated, shaking off the softness of her expression and gritted her teeth. “It's like we're only growing more and more apart,” she accused. “And—and I never know when I'll see you next, and I— _I hate this_ , and I hate you, and I hate that we will _finally_ , finally get a taste of what life would be like, if things were different, if things were _normal_ , and you— _you_ will have it all to yourself— _alone_. Like you always are. Because you are older and I am younger, and you are the heiress, and I, the nobody, like always—young, adorable, naïve little Anna, with her twin braids and awkward smile and knobby knees, never once let inside. _In my own home!_ ” Anna hissed, and rose one fist high, and struck a resounding blow into the wood once more, only once.  
  
The silence that followed was so much louder.  
  
Jack hadn't even realized that he'd floated closer, not until he was at Anna's side on the floor. He was as terrified as ever to render himself invisible— _too many painful memories, too much risk, too hollow a feeling_ —but for Anna, he did.  
  
He curled himself against the door frame and set his chin upon his knees. And waited.  
  
They sat like that for a long time, the two of them.  
  
“I miss you,” Anna whispered into the quiet, and dragged her fingertips along the door, lightly, a feather's touch with the grain, along the cracks of wood and sheen of painted snowflakes. “I need you. I need my sister. I need you to open the door, and I—I can't go on much longer like this... How many more years, Elsa? Until we're old and dying? I think about that sometimes, you know. Two old crones in an abandoned castle, who've never thought to open up the gates, and you, in your room, like always... Just open the door, Elsa,” Anna pleaded, eyes squeezing shut. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and I didn't mean it—I love you, I love you so much, no matter how angry I am, and I miss you and, just— _please._ Okay? Please.”  
  
Jack swallowed hard. Not knowing what else to do—not knowing what else he _could_ do—Jack eased inside a slow, unsteady breath, and exhaled... and out materialized a small, tiny figurine of ice on the floor. (Thirteen... That was still young enough to believe. Right?  
  
He hoped so.)  
  
Anna's eyes flickered down to the shimmering light of magic, and caught sight of his gift on the floor. (How long had it been, Jack wondered, since he'd done the same for Elsa?) Entranced, Anna shifted closer, ever-so-slightly, and looked closer—as if to make sure that it wasn't a trick of the light. (T _hat it wouldn't disappear, if she got too close_.) As she reached down a careful, tentative hand, the glow from beyond the window caught on a special streak of hair, made light by a strike of magic so many years ago... The figurine was cold in her hands, he knew, but it didn't stop her from holding it higher, to see. Her eyes took in the shape, the meaning, and her lower lip trembled between her teeth.  
  
Jack Frost pressed his lips together, and let the frame of the door support the weight of him, in all the heaviness of his uncertainty.  
  
“Do you wanna build a snowman?” he whispered, too quiet for Anna to hear.  
  
Anna wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, cradling the small figurine— _Olaf, he'd been named, once upon a time, though Anna certainly wouldn't remember that_ —and she laughed to herself, even as her tears spilled down her cheeks.  
  
“Jack Frost,” Anna whispered reverently, like a _thank you_. Her eyes darted about the hall, frantically, growing wide. Anna clutched the tiny snowman to her chest and peered about the hall, desperately. “Are you here?”  
  
“Always,” he answered, and marveled at the truth of it, even if he didn't let her hear it.  
  
Anna leaned back into the door frame, silent and thoughtful, as she examined the figurine in her hands. She didn't recognize him— _not yet_ —but that wasn't why Jack Frost had made the gift in the first place. She would remember Olaf on her own one day—he was sure of it.   
  
After a long moment, Anna seemed to come to a decision.  
  
“I'm sorry, Elsa,” she whispered, holding the figurine tenderly, so that it wouldn't melt. “This was selfish of me. I don't know why you're shutting me out, but... You must have a reason. I don't like it, but... I'll try to understand. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, Elsa, but... for you, I'll try. I'll try.”  
  
And try, she did.

. * * * .

For years, Jack continued to wonder at what point  
Anna had realized that Elsa was not behind that door.  
  
Because Jack was certain  
that she had.  


. * * * .


	60. - half a -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/30/14_. These chapters are a little late, but I hope they are worth the wait. ;__________________;

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- half a -_  
  
 _(lifetime)_  
  
. * * * .

When Jack arrived to the castle on the night of the ball—as early as he possibly could, even with a massive blizzard on its way through Canada—he expected Elsa to reasonably stressed out.  
  
He didn't expect her to stab herself with a pin.  
  
“ _Ow!_ ” she hissed, sucking in a sharp, frustrated breath of surprise. The twists she'd tried to secure at the nape of her neck fell about her shoulders in a total disarray, onto the silky white fabric of her long robe, and Jack was already backing away in alarm before she even twisted around to face him, so it was no use, really, trying to escape the full power of her wrath.  
  
But Jack figured he deserved points for effort.  
  
“ _Jack_ — _Frost_!” she demanded, and said Guardian outwardly cringed, one foot already dangling over the window's ledge. “If you're going to _insist_ springing in on me like this—”  
  
“I know, I know—I'm sorry!” Jack laughed, placing two hands up in defeat, or maybe in self-defense. “I'll remember to give proper warning next time—I swear! I just didn't expect you to be armed!”  
  
“Do _not_ expect me to find humor in that joke, Jack Frost, because blood has already been shed this night, and I am in no mood.”  
  
He could hardly be blamed for gulping.  
  
Grimacing, Jack Frost stepped back inside and slowly made his way back to the vanity, where Elsa was restlessly fidgeting with the various tools laid out in front of her. ( _Brushes, combs, pins. A whole roll of satiny ribbon_.) Her hair was all waves and volume, a cascade of light down her back, and even Jack could tell that it was tangled with knots.  
  
“I'm sorry,” Elsa said quietly, staring morosely at the elegant comb in her hands. Jack stood patiently behind her, his hands in his pockets, and tried to feel as carefree as he made himself look. His staff still lingered by the open window, its usual resting place, and it was almost sort of funny, how little Jack's magic could help him now.  
  
(Jack wasn't always sure what it was that was helping Elsa the most. But he knew it wasn't his magic.)  
  
“What for?”  
  
“For scolding you, when you were only being yourself,” Elsa answered, turning the comb over in her fingers. The silver gleamed in the lamplight. “I only... I've been a bit of a mess today, and I've only barely been able to hide it,” Elsa smiled grimly, looking up to meet his eyes in the mirror's reflection. It'd been a while since he'd seen her with her hair down, he realized—not since she was maybe eight-years-old. _Half a lifetime ago_.  
  
And, more specifically—hers.

( _It still struck him, sometimes. That there were more years in her life_  
 _in which he'd been her Guardian than there were years in which he hadn't been._  
  
 _But—_  
  
 _In truth, he'd always been her Guardian,_  
 _even before he'd known it himself._ )

  
“Well,” Jack began awkwardly, feeling uncomfortable being the recipient of such an honest, open apology—especially when he didn't feel entirely entitled to it. “I can see how that might be difficult to hide, what with the colossal mess that is currently your hair.”  
  
Elsa deadpanned immediately. He'd wiped the earnest apology clear from her face, which may not have been such a good thing, but her unamused impatience was a lot easier to accept. It was something he was a _lot_ more familiar with.  
  
“Fine,” Elsa said evenly, with a voice fluid like velvet, and an expression that read _take no prisoners._ She exchanged the comb for a silver-plated brush, which she lifted over her shoulder, extending it pointedly in his direction. “You're here, so let's make yourself useful, yes?”  
  
There wasn't really any room for a _no_.  
  
“Are you sure you trust me with that thing?” Jack smirked uneasily, nervous for reasons he couldn't really define. Actually. He _could_ define them: _she_ might trust him with a hairbrush—but he didn't.  
  
“At this point, I'm sure even you would be a better alternative,” Elsa said flatly, then sighed, gazing at her mussed reflection with hopeless frustration. There was a moment of hesitation, and the only reason Jack caught it was because he'd yet to step forward and retrieve her brush. “I've been trying to do this for almost an hour,” she admitted quietly.  
  
Perplexed, Jack finally stepped forward. He awkwardly took the brush from her hand, which felt clunky and foreign in his grasp... What the hell was he supposed to do with this?  
  
“Comb it through the tangles,” Elsa instructed, reading his mind. More than a little intimidated, Jack gingerly placed the bristles against— “No, wait—begin with the ends, please. Start from the bottom and gradually work your way up to the roots—it won't hurt as much that way.”  
  
Jack's eyes widened, brush suspended somewhere near her right ear. “It _hurts?”_ he demanded.  
  
He was mildly offended when she giggled at him, before he remembered that it was a good thing—she _needed_ a laugh. ( _Tonight, especially. Maybe more than any other._ ) And Jack was actually mostly mollified when he frowned petulantly and sifted the brush over the very ends of her long hair. It was a strange sensation, feeling the catch of little tangles in his hand... his sister's hair had never been very long, and however close they'd been, hair-brushing had always been his mother's most-beloved job. It wasn't something he'd ever really tried. Jack found himself gliding the hairbrush slowly down the strands, more fascinated by the way they tugged than focused on the actual task at hand.  
  
“It helps if you hold the strands, too,” Elsa added, and when he looked up, he saw that she was smiling at him. Or, more accurately, laughing at him with her eyes. He smirked back, eyes narrowed, but did as he was told, and threaded the fingers of his other hand through the hair at the base of her skull, then slowly eased the brush downward, feeling the tangles disappear into smooth, golden strands. Transfixed by the transformation taking place before his eyes, Jack often brushed through the same spot three or four times before he realized that all the tangles were gone. The task therefore took a great deal longer than it probably should have.  
  
Though neither of them seemed to mind.  
  
Elsa had noticeably relaxed, which he sort of expected. Another thing he hadn't expected, though, was to feel a lot calmer, himself.  
  
Which told him that he should probably stop having so many damn expectations. They were pretty much always wrong.  
  
“That's better,” Elsa said softly, smiling up at him in the mirror, and Jack's hands came to a halt. He'd gotten so caught up in what he was doing that, well—he'd sort of forgotten exactly what he was doing. “Thank you. Now, if you could—”  
  
“Uh. Elsa. What's the ribbon for?”  
  
Elsa blinked. “Jack,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a skittish animal. Jack glanced down to the death grip he'd fisted around her hairbrush and realized that, weirdly, he was sort of acting like one. “My hands are still shaking too badly. I need your help to braid it and twist it properly.”  
  
 _What._  
  
“Uh... Elsa. I think we should call your mom.”  
  
“I'd really rather not.”  
  
Well, that made two of them, but Jack didn't really see any other possible way around it. “Why not?” he demanded.  
  
“Because she already came by an hour ago to ask if I needed anything, and I told her no,” she curtly explained. Jack gaped at her.  
  
“ _So?_ ”  
  
 _“So—_ I don't want to worry her,” she insisted, eyes meaningful. (Just because Jack suddenly _understood_ didn't mean he _liked_ it.) “Tonight is the last night that I want her to find any more reason for concern.”  
  
“Elsa—” he practically sputtered, well and truly flabbergasted. And more than a little uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to get into that. “Elsa, you're _allowed_ to be nervous!”  
  
She gave him a look, sage and sad and strange.  
  
She looked so different, with her hair framing her face like that.  
  
“Not me,” Elsa answered quietly, like it were a private joke. “Not tonight.”

( _Not ever_.)

Jack heaved a sigh, defeated and resigned.  
  
“This is gonna take a while,” he warned her, and prepared himself for battle. The hair brush rose high, poised and ready.  
  
“Thank you for doing this,” she said earnestly, catching him by surprise, even though it really shouldn't have. She looked so grateful, and so sad, and so nervous and happy, and Jack once again found his words caught in his throat.  
  
“Just... keep that in mind,” he said quietly, staring down at the crown of her head. “We'll see how long that sentiment lasts once I get through with this.”  
  
A breath of laughter burst forth from her forlorn face, and Jack set down the brush with a considerably lighter heart. Feeling more clueless than ever, Jack slipped his fingers into her hair, experimentally dragging them through the strands. They were so soft.  
  
And before he knew it, Jack was engrossed in the incredibly significant duty of playing with her hair.  
  
“I am glad to see you so delighted,” Elsa cut in, amusement in her smirk. “But I'm afraid that if you continue your handiwork for much longer, my hair will require an additional round of brushing.”  
  
Jack frowned. “It's not wise to deny this Guardian of his Fun, you know,” he quipped loftily, mostly to hide his embarrassment at having gotten so distracted. But he didn't stop playing with her hair.  
  
“Here,” Elsa reached up, and it was then that Jack saw: her hands were indeed shaking. Jack frowned as Elsa finger-combed out some of the tangles that Jack had put back in, and then brushed away his hand so that she could divide her hair into three even parts. Quickly and clearly, she provided instructions on how to create a simple braid. Jack didn't understand any of it.  
  
“What the hell is all the ribbon for? Where are the pins supposed to go?”  
  
“I'll take care of that,” Elsa laughed, then leaned back a little, a subtle hint to get moving.  
  
“If I'd known what I was in for tonight, I probably would have skipped the storm in Toronto,” Jack muttered. He was only half-joking, which Elsa seemed to catch onto rather easily.  
  
“You got here as soon as you could,” Elsa insisted, watching fondly through the mirror. “Just like you always do.”  
  
Jack fell silent as he carded his fingers through her hair, slowly and carefully tucking and twisting as she'd explained. He made decent work of it, with only a few gentle reminders along the way, and all the while Jack thought of Rapunzel in Corona, her flowing blonde hair, and the way Bunny described it, when it grew dark and cold, and he was sure, beyond anything else in his existence, that all the magic had died _._ He thought about that, and the power of her tears. How she Dreamed and Hoped, and the sacrifices she made, and how it all worked out, in the end. He wanted to tell Elsa her story.  
  
But he couldn't.  
  
“Jack?”  
  
He looked up, startled. In his hands was a perfect braid and, before he'd realized it, she'd swung it forward and begun to help him tie it. ( _It'd be easier without the gloves_ , Jack thought, watching the ribbon curl between her fingers, and kept silent.) Elsa twisted it neatly, holding it with a gently shaking hand at her nape, and carefully reached for one of the pins on the stand. She was doing fine without him, but his hands still hovered at the base of her skull.  
  
“You'll stay with me?” she asked, quiet and unsure. Her hands were still worrying the ends of her braid into its spiral, slipping a third or fourth pin into place. Gentle tufts of bangs fell into her eyes as she peered up at him in the mirror, and she looked at him like she didn't actually already know his answer. “Please?”  
  
“Actually... I figured that after the hair styling, you'd be good enough on your own from here on out, so—”  
  
“ _Jack_.”  
  
“Of course,” he grinned, and reached forward to ruffle her perfectly-trimmed bangs. He told himself that it was for the sake of nostalgia, and not because he'd gotten a little too used to the texture at his fingertips. “Yeah,” he murmured, and stuffed both hands in his pockets, before they got any other ideas. “Yeah, of course.”

. * * * .


	61. - conceal it -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/31/14_. Goodness gracious, three months in and only three-fifths of the way into the story. :P I have some important notes for you all!
> 
> **Please read!** I wanted to include a scene or two before this chapter to show that the King had Elsa meet and greet a few of their guests in smaller settings as they arrived in Arendelle, so that she could get used to the task of speaking with strangers again before the big night, but the scene(s) wouldn't have really added anything to the plot except to show how the King is a really strategic planner and detail-oriented, and that he is trying his best to ease Elsa through this transition as smoothly as possible. I'm feeling short on writing time, though, and as much as I'd like to further develop the King's character and his relationship with Elsa, I just don't have the time or the energy. :( Hopefully this quick note--and some passing mention in the next few chapters--will suffice. 
> 
> **Potential Trigger Warning:** I don't want to spill too much, but the last thing I would ever want is for someone to be triggered by the content of my story, so please take note: if you are sensitive to situations with cases of severe anxiety, please proceed with caution. There is a brief scene in which a character experiences the beginnings of a mild panic attack.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- conceal it -_

. * * * .

  
A gloved hand reached toward the curtain shielding them from view and gently eased it back, ever so carefully.  
  
Barely breathing, Elsa and Jack peered around, determined not to be seen. Jack, of course, had nothing to worry about; he could have just as easily done a pirouette in the middle of the floor without anybody so much as commenting on the draft, but still, Elsa was being sneaky—Elsa was _rarely_ this sneaky—and honestly, if kicking off a royal party didn't include a bit of sneaking around, then where was the fun?  
  
(He wasn't exactly an expert on royal balls, but he liked to think that he knew a thing or two about the other part.)  
  
And Jack liked the game, anyway, so he stuck behind her and matched her movements, watching with sharp, keen eyes as his nervous excitement climbed ever higher. When Elsa's hand reached out to press back the weight of curtain, Jack's hand followed along; when Elsa's head dipped forward to catch sight of the gathering crowd, Jack's face did the same, slow and cautious. And curious. So undeniably _curious_ , and on edge, and jittery, and literally fucking excited _out of his damn mind_. It was the first time Jack had ever seen something like this.  
  
(A party where fine lords and ladies carried on with their fancy smalltalk and fancy hors d'oeuvres—although Elsa hadn't really known what he was talking about two days ago, when he'd teased her about the fancy finger foods, and Jack had to remind himself that _wait,_ appetizers weren't called that here or in this age and what the hell, _isn't that French, anyway?_ )  
  
Whatever. None of this was normal. This whole charade was a blast to their regular routine, anyway.  
  
 _No excitement in the library tonight_ , thought Jack, with barely-contained amusement, as he peered over Elsa's shoulder across the stretch of fine carpet and down the long curve of stairs. People were in their nicest get-ups, in long-sleeved gowns and heavy dress jackets and important-looking sashes with shiny medallions that Jack didn't actually really care all that much about. It felt strange to be in Arendelle and see so many people— _together_ , and in the _castle_ , no less—and this _wasn't_ a dream, though it was a little overwhelming, and fucking surreal as hell and—  
  
“There's so many people,” Elsa whispered.  
  
And, more importantly, it felt good to be able to shield Elsa's back like this.  
  
To stand Guard.

( _Stay with me_ _?_ )  
  


“Hey,” Jack said softly, then glanced down at her, only to find that she was practically under his chin. Her eyes were locked on the room at large, taking everything in, and Jack peered closer—seeing it through _her_ eyes. “It wouldn't matter if there were a hundred people out there, or twenty,” he argued, gently tilting his head to the side in thought. “Since I'm the only one who really matters.”  
  
Jack grunted as a swift jab of an elbow found its way into his gut, and the strained chuckle that followed was only half an act. “Just kidding,” he rasped, easing a hand over his stomach.  
  
“Sorry,” she whispered, breathless and distracted. Her eyes never left the dance floor. “I forgot how close you were.”  
  
Jack wanted to point out that she'd still acted with the intent to _strike—_ regardless of elbow-to-gut distance—but decided that that would be a debate best left for later.  
  
“Your father certainly has an interesting sense of humor,” Jack muttered, mostly in an attempt to distract himself from the sick feeling still swirling through his stomach. He cast his eyes about the room once more, taking in the details he'd missed upon first sight. The tables glittered with fine crystal and pure silver utensils, and the walls and drapes were strewn with decorations... ( _What are those_ — _paper? Some sort of flowy fabric, or something?_ ) An interesting assortment of glistening, sparkling snowflakes.  
  
The entire hall looked like a frickin' winter wonderland.  
  
“Is it like him to be so obnoxiously ironic?”  
  
Elsa slanted a stern glance his way, though Jack determinedly kept his eyes on the shiny hangings cascading down from the ceiling. ( _Tinsel?_ ) “He means to connect _theme_ with precaution,” she said evenly. “It is not common to host such a celebration so deep into winter, after all. He means to support our rather unorthodox decision in every way he can.”  
  
Jack huffed at that, but wisely kept silent. The swallow that came next was a hard one, and it was with great effort that he kept Elsa from hearing his unease.  
  
(Because he knew that _she_ knew just as well how very little paper snowflakes would hide her secret, should she lose control.)  
  
“Still... he spent an awful lot of effort on decorating,” Jack added, lifting his shoulders in an ambivalent shrug, still helping Elsa to hold the heavy curtain aloft. (He would have liked to nudge his shoulder forward into hers, but sudden, unexpected movements did not seem like something Elsa would appreciate tonight.) “I could have saved him the trouble,” he added meaningfully. Elsa didn't say anything to that, but he could feel some of the tension lift from her shoulders—could almost _see_ it—when her lips quirked. When she suppressed a smile.  
  
“So... this is what a party looks like,” Elsa whispered, captured in awe. Just as Jack was sure that she had started to remember what it was like to enjoy herself, Elsa's mouth tightened, and with a sigh, she added, “Anna would have loved this.”  
  
Jack looked down to Elsa's profile, suddenly at a loss as to what he should say. (He hadn't told her what'd happened just a few days before, when he'd found her sister falling apart against her door; he hadn't, and probably wouldn't, ever.)  
  
He didn't know _what_ Anna was doing at that moment, or what she was feeling, and he couldn't pretend to know what this day had been like for her... watching an endless stream of guests enter her home, watching the ships arrive one-by-one, hearing their voices in the grand entrance hall—only to be sent to bed with the first shades of dusk. None of the guests had brought any young children with whom she could play, so Anna was called away, alone, by a sad-smiled Olga, just after a private dinner. Jack didn't know what Anna would think, or say or do, after any of this was over... He didn't know.  
  
Though he _did_ know that there was a new book at her window, paired with a small, frozen figurine, sculpted with care into the head of a blooming summer rose. The ice trinket would last no more than a day, but he hoped the lessons and stories inside the book would linger a little longer. They were full of adventure and far-off places, of strong heroines who fought for what mattered.  
  
Of ordinary people who did extraordinary things.

( _And he didn't flatter himself to think that he would know Anna so well,_  
 _that he would have any right to claim understanding of what she was going through._  
  
 _But he could almost picture it—the open book in her lap as she sat curled against the window,_  
 _forehead pressed against the glass. The gift was beautiful, and thoughtful, and_ oh _so precious to her._  
  
 _But the illustrations could never compare to the sight of so many lights in the harbor._  
 _The faint trickling of noise drifting up from down the stairs, or the smell of rich sweets wafting through the walls._  
  
 _He imagined that the crisp pages were already crinkled, smudged with fresh tears_.)

  
“She'll get here one day,” Jack told her quietly, without really knowing what he was saying. The drone of the party suddenly seemed so loud. “And then you'll get to go down those stairs—together.”  
  
 _And you'll_ be _together._  
  
 _Like you used to be._  
  
“Jack...” Elsa whispered uncertainly.  
  
Her breath shortened, and he could _feel_ it—the rising swell of panic, fresh beneath the surface.  
  
Jack dropped the curtain immediately, and took hold of her upper arm, ushering her farther to the side—away from the edge of the wall, and all the party and all the distractions and all the noise. She was struggling to catch her breath, and Jack's mind began to race—sorting through all of the hundreds of things that could go _wrong—_ and then he snapped out of it, and Elsa's wrists were in his hands, and he was ducking down, forcing her to look at him.  
  
Only—she didn't.  
  
“Elsa,” Jack whispered, urgent and sharp. “Elsa, look at me.”  
  
She swallowed hard, and shook her head, though whether it was against him, or his words, or the onslaught of fear—he didn't know. “ _Elsa_ ,” he tried again, trying to be soothing and firm all at once. His grip tightened around her wrists instinctively, in an act of reassurance—and she jerked back, abruptly, hitting the wall hard with her back. Jack's mouth ran dry, startled, and he dropped his hold without hesitation, mortified.  
  
“Elsa,” he breathed, more loudly, half an apology, half a plea. He swallowed hard, reminded himself that _he_ needed to stay calm, and _what the hell just happened?  
  
_ “Elsa—it's okay,” he pleaded, careful not to touch her again, or reach for her—or do something stupid like try to hold onto her again—though he couldn't quite bring himself to lower his arms to his sides. “It's okay,” he repeated, with as much certainty as he could manage. “It's all right.”  
  
Just as he began to _really_ freak out— _her parents would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs and she would be announced any second_ —her fingers clasped tight to his forearms, desperate and trembling and almost painful, and his own hands flexed open and crooked, stiff with surprise.  
  
“ _Jack_ —” Elsa hissed, head falling forward, heavy, and out came a breath, the smallest wisp of frost curled around its edges—  
  
— _fuck!_  
  
“Jack—this is—I don't know what's happening!” she gasped, as the air around her face began to freeze, and she looked up at him through the chill, as lost and as confused as she'd been the first time he saw her, almost ten years before, standing small in the cold air on a balcony, her tiny, shallow breaths clouding her face, afraid and unsure and—  
  
“You're not alone,” Jack whispered, looking in her eyes. He paused, trying to take a steadying breath, but the moment let his words sink in, let them both hear the sounds of each other's breathing. He inhaled again, emphatically, and Elsa followed, shuddering in a deep inhale that didn't quite catch, an exhale that didn't quite disappear, and when her eyes closed in frustration, Jack leaned forward and made sure she heard him when he said, “You're not alone, okay? I'm here. I'm here. It's okay,” he repeated, over and over. “It's okay.”  
  
Elsa's skull leaned back against the wall, and for a few long moments, Jack said nothing—only let her concentrate on the sound of her breathing, of the feeling of her lungs and her heart and the tether of her desperate hold on his arms. Jack's hands hovered anxiously between them, trapped, and useless, and stiff with cold.  
  
Slowly, frighteningly slowly, Elsa regained some of the composure that she'd lost, just enough to say, “This is... this is the first time I've really been in this room... since the Accident.” She looked at him, briefly, and as her eyes closed, all of the pieces suddenly clicked into place. “So stupid... Why didn't I—I didn't _think_ —” She was taking another breath, starting to lose control again, and Jack was already starting to strategize.  
  
They didn't have _time_ to calm Elsa down—not if they wanted this plan to _work_. Not if they wanted to _prove_ that the King could trust her. They needed this. This was their only shot— _everything_ they'd worked so hard for was resting on this one night, on this _stupid_ ball—  
  
“ _Elsa!_ ” he whispered, firm and direct. She was still clinging to him, but he didn't dare move more than an inch—not unless it was her choice, her doing.”Elsa—focus on _me_ , okay? Focus on me. Walk with me.”  
  
“But—! We can't! The ceremony—”  
  
“Will start when you arrive,” Jack answered readily, pasting a poor excuse for a half-assed smirk onto his face. “C'mon. Focus on me. See? Just one step forward, into the hall—just for a minute. Just a—yeah, that's it—good. Now one more...”  
  
“I don't—know what this is,” Elsa gasped, stumbling forward. She was looking much worse for wear than he was used to seeing, but thankfully more aware. Alert.  
  
“See?” Jack kept saying, leading her forward, away from the stairs. (Jack didn't know what it was either, but he had a feeling—and he didn't like it.) “Good... keep going,” he encouraged, glancing to the empty hallway behind them. She was looking at him when he turned back, wide eyes and open mouth and heaving chest.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
“Hey—this is good, right? Walking is good. Pacing is good,” he went on, and realized with an unsettling jolt that he was rambling. But he couldn't stop. “When it starts—you pace. Pacing helps. Okay? See—we're good. We're pacing. I'm here.”  
  
“I'm better,” Elsa said suddenly, as if only just realizing where she was, and where she was _supposed_ to be. He could almost feel the rising tension again, stiffening her spine. “I'm fine,” she straightened, but didn't let go. “We should head back. I need to—”  
  
“It's okay,” Jack told her, and wondered if she would punch him for saying that fucking stupid phrase so many times because he definitely felt like punching himself—but he didn't know what the hell else he was supposed to say. “Take another walk with me. Real quick.”  
  
“Jack, I—”  
  
“Please,” he said quietly.  
  
Though in his opinion, it didn't sound much like a request.  
  
Elsa visibly relaxed with each turn about the hall, while Jack struggled to keep his nerves from ripping themselves to shreds. Her breathing had calmed considerably, and was almost close to normal; _he_ had stopped breathing altogether, and had vowed to keep it that way, until he was sure that he could manage appropriately. Elsa wrung her hands in front of her as she glided along, clasping them in _just_ the right way—the way she'd perfected over the years—that looked demure enough in its politeness, and hid the fact that she may or may not have been trembling. He gripped his staff with one hand and fisted the other into his pocket, so that neither of them could punch a wall.  
  
For the past three minutes, Elsa had been whispering to herself... a constant stream of reminders, a philosophy, a way of life.  
  
He'd heard the words in his head, even before she said them.  
  
He hated them.

“ _Conceal it_ ,” Elsa whispered to herself.  
“ _Don't feel it. Conceal it_ ,” she repeated, over and over, an endless mantra.  
  
And the worst part of it all, of everything,  
was that it was working.

. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.  
  
“I'm ready,” she said quietly.  
  
“Elsa... are you sure?”

“Your Majesty,” greeted a servant, appearing from around the corner. Elsa and Jack looked up, surprised, as the stout, sturdy man lowered himself into a respectful bow. When he stood, his eyes remained on the floor, courteous and apologetic. “The King and Queen are prepared for you to join the celebration in the main hall, your highness.”  
  
How long they'd been ' _prepared'_ , Jack didn't know. He didn't want to know. It could have been a matter of moments. It could have been half the evening. Jack didn't care.  
  
“Thank you,” Elsa replied graciously, and after the bald-headed servant slipped away, Elsa looked to Jack, one last time.  
  
Then she took a deep breath, and followed.  
  
 _Back to the start_ —Elsa stood behind the veil of curtain at the open door, and waited. This time, she didn't reach out to touch it, or look beyond it, or see who stood waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Two guards flanked the archway on the other side of the wall, ready for her entrance. She stood tall with her hands clasped before her, and only looked ahead—forward.  
  
“Stay close to me?” Elsa breathed, for his ears only.  
  
Jack Frost laughed, in spite of himself.  
  
(Because the idea that _he_ was the anchor—it was an illusion. It was _she_ who anchored _him_ , and anything that proposed otherwise was mere wishful thinking; he was bound to her by the frozen heart on his sleeve, on which it read, curled in magic and ice, _as if he had any choice._ )  
  
He licked his dry lips.  
  
“Until you step on my bare feet,” he said gravely, then glanced to the side—to let her see the genuineness of his grin, if she would only look.  
  
But Elsa merely smiled, serene and sage and strangely amused. She held her chin high, as she always had, no matter what. She drew in another breath, and must have found strength in the cold air— _from nature's chill, alone_ —because her eyes were smiling as someone's voice rumbled deep in the distance, and the sound of her name cut through the surrounding haze of doubt. The sound of anticipation and applause filled the room like a thrumming cloud, reverberating through his chest.  
  
“It's—it's _okay_ to be afraid, you know,” Jack told her suddenly, and tried not to choke on his own tongue.

(Had anyone ever told _him_ that—before Jamie?  
For all the times he'd told it to others,  
how often had he really believed it himself?)

“Don't worry, Jack,” Elsa whispered, as the light of a smile shined in her eyes. ( _Old soul_ , his mind whispered, as his breath caught in his throat—)  
  
She was not quite laughing, when she said, “Fear and I are no strangers.”

And then she stepped forward, into the open. 

. * * * .


	62. - complicated answer -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/3/14_. Moving steadily right along! I'm heading out to Utah for some rock climbing and white water rafting this weekend, so I'll be going on a mini-break until next week! Here's a few chapters until then. :)

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- complicated answer -_

. * * * .

  
The introductions were taking a lot longer than he thought.  
  
Jack stood dutifully at Elsa's side on the platform, desperately trying not to be too much of a distraction or fidget too noisily while Elsa and her father received their guests properly. He leaned casually against the support of his staff, for all appearances without a care in the world. Her mother was off to the side of the room, accepting countless congratulations and compliments on _such finery_ and _what a wonderful party_ and _you have such a beautiful daughter_. He'd tried keeping track of all the different ways someone could insert an overblown helping of pompousness into a simple compliment, but he'd inevitably lost count somewhere around _My, what an infinite pleasure it is to be here!_ and _What marvelous salad plates!_  
  
Like anybody actually cared that much about salad plates.  
  
For the most part, Jack kept himself busy by contemplating how annoying it must be for royalty to have to just stand around making polite smalltalk for most of the night—and especially for highborn ladies, who had to extend a hand every other minute and let someone else put their mouth on it as some form of weird, backwards greeting of courtesy. Elsa was perfectly poised throughout each encounter—her elegant white gloves ever without a wrinkle in sight—but hell if Elsa wasn't as damn near bored out of her mind as he was with all these formalities. Even if she wore it better.  
  
What a tedious, terrifying, necessary party.  
  
To Jack, the grand ballroom had always just been a big empty hall. ( _Another hollow walking place in a too-big castle, filled with nothing but absence_ .) And yet—here it was. Full of people, and conversation, and low-humming music, and an endless parade of ballgowns.

( _“Rosemaling_ ,” Elsa had taught him, as she showed him the fine intricate embroidery on the front of her pretty dress, however many days before. “ _It's an art form that is very popular among our people.”_ She liked the way the floral designs flowed together, and the way they sometimes included geometric elements that she recognized from her books, and as she spoke to him, Jack looked on with thoughtful consideration.  
  
But Jack was busy thinking of a different flower, planted by a ray of sun and uprooted by the hands of Corona. It was not the first time that Jack had noticed the difference— _the way the people of this realm cherished the sunshine and summer, and preferred the beauty of flowers over frost_ —but he nodded along as Elsa talked, grateful to learn more about her world, and she, grateful for someone to share it with.)

“It is a great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Your Majesty,” said another man, bowing low. Jack had been so distracted by his thoughts that he hadn't noticed this one approach them and had missed half the introduction. ( _Her_ , Jack reminded himself. Her and her father. He didn't exist to these people, and probably wouldn't, ever.) The newcomer had apparently already greeted the King, who stood by and watched, as carefully contemplative as ever; still, it took Jack a moment to realize that the man's address had been to Elsa.  
  
“The pleasure is mine,” Elsa politely replied, with a smile that was all genuine warmth, and it wasn't long before Jack was smiling, too. (She was _here_. This was _happening_. They were really, _actually_ —)  
  
“We have greatly missed your presence at the summits of the Southern Isles, your highness,” said the tall, thick-shouldered man to the King. Jack realized mid-sentence with no small amount of amusement that the newest gentleman was sporting a rather hefty set of sideburns. (He wasn't laughing. He was clearing his throat. And if Elsa didn't believe him later, when he told her that—)  
  
Sideburns' tone was respectful, as well as his second bow, when he dipped his head and said, “Your highness, I assure you my father deeply regrets that he was not able to make this journey to Arendelle. I hope that my presence here, though considerably less, will suffice.”  
  
The King laughed deeply, and Jack assumed that this was some sort of inside joke that he wasn't meant to understand. (Or maybe he wouldn't have found it funny, anyway. Whatever.) Elsa was smiling though, like she got the humor, but was too polite to let it show.  
  
“Rest assured, Prince Henrik, that your presence here is most welcome. I have already delivered notice of my regards with his request for the amendments to our agreements of summer trade, but please do share my best wishes with your father when you return.”  
  
“I most certainly shall,” Henrik-Sideburns bowed his head, and smiled in what Jack supposed was (supposed to be) a charming way, and he was so intent on examining the shape and cut of the man's dedication to facial hair that he almost missed it, when the conversation turned.  
  
“My lady,” said the young man, who was apparently a Prince, or something, as he kept his eyes on Elsa. “It is with my whole heart that I welcome you to the court.”  
  
“Thank you, Prince Henrik,” Elsa replied, then dipped into a gentle curtsy. “I look forward to learning all that I can.”  
  
“I have no doubt that you shall,” said Henrik-Sideburns warmly. “The alliance of Arendelle and the Southern Isles has held a strong partnership for generations. I am confident that this connection will only grow stronger.”  
  
Jack's brow shifted curiously. The Prince of the Southern Isles was admittedly one of the better acquaintances to cross their path this evening—one of those strong, seemingly-decent sorts of guys—but there was something funny about his words. Jack couldn't quite put his finger on it... so he crossed arms instead.  
  
“I must ask, your highness—if I am not too late—if I may have the honor of asking for your second dance?”  
  
Jack's brain stuttered to a halt, and his eyes snapped to Elsa's profile. (The King, too, was gazing down at Elsa, eyes keen and glowing, but Jack didn't really process that just yet, right away.)  
  
His heart jumped around wildly in his chest because this was _it._ This was what they'd been preparing for all these months— _this!  
  
_ Jack looked to Elsa instantly, immediately wondering how nervous she might feel, looking for any lingering trace of panic or unease or _something_ , but Jack was satisfied to find that all was well. In fact. All was very well, considering. The prospect of dancing hardly seemed a surprise to Elsa in the midst of a ball.  
  
Rather, Elsa seemed more surprised by the idea that anyone would actually ask.  
  
“I would be delighted,” Elsa answered after a moment, complete with the beginnings of a glowing smile. She turned her eyes to her father with bright, beaming eyes, and when they shared a look, secret and proud, it occurred to Jack—she wasn't seeking his _permission_. If there was anything made different about this night—this ball, or her age, or what it all meant—  
  
It was this.  
  
“The pleasure is all mine,” the Prince of Sideburns echoed, with the charming sort of smile that Jack supposed most Princes were born with, or something, and then he was bowing again— _big surprise_ —and holy fractal, did these people never get tired of all the bowing and dipping and head-bopping? Seriously? And he almost missed the next part of what was said, so distracted was Jack by his own annoyance. “I look forward to dancing with you, Princess Elsa of Arendelle. It is my father's greatest hope that we may yet again receive the counsel of Arendelle on Southern soil, and see our kingdoms united together, once more, more than ever before.”  
  
Jack's brow quirked higher, tugged by intrigue. That was certainly an interesting declaration to make. But neither the King nor the Princess seemed to find any fault with it. Still.  
  
Jack wasn't sure what bothered him about it, but it bothered him.  
  
“Please excuse me, your greatness, but I have a message I must deliver to the Duke of Weselton on behalf of my brother Harald.”  
  
“Of course,” said the King. “And please, do send my regards to your brothers, as well. We appreciate the presence of the Southern Isles here at this most joyous celebration, and we regret that it should fall so late into winter, that the rest of your family is not able to share in it.”  
  
“Most certainly, Your Majesty,” Prince Sideburns reassured him, then hesitated. “Though I must admit, your highness, that as it stands, I am most grateful that they are preoccupied with other matters of state.” Henrik shifted his gaze toward Elsa, before he said, “Were any of my eleven brothers to have joined me, I would surely have been the last in line for a dance.”  
  
Jack didn't immediately realize that the strain he felt in his jaw was due to the clenching of his teeth.  
  
Elsa flushed a healthy glow, but said nothing, and it wasn't long before another round of pleasantries had been exchanged, and Sideburn Prince said his goodbye and went off to deal with whatever Weasel-what's-it, leaving Elsa and her father in peace on the platform, and Jack strangely irritated. He watched Sideburns' retreating back, long enough that he was probably out of earshot, and Elsa must have been doing the same, because neither she nor the King spoke until then.  
  
“Twelve,” Elsa whispered to her father, quiet and meaningful, without taking her eyes off of the greatness of the room. Jack turned to them, curious and annoyed. Twelve what?  
  
The King glanced down to his daughter, only briefly, then turned his gaze on the rest of the celebration, which was apparently in full swing, despite all the standing around. “You have a question for me, Elsa?” he asked quietly, and it occurred to Jack—after almost a half hour of prim-and-proper enunciation—that the King and Elsa were making an effort to not move their lips at all.  
  
Jack peered on, shifting his crossed arms more firmly across his front, and tried to get Elsa to glance at him, even for only a moment, even if there wasn't supposed to be anything beside her but empty space. She kept her eyes trained dutifully ahead.

(It wasn't _her_ that he was angry at. He wasn't even sure that he was angry at all.  
It was just this stupid set-up and the stupid Sideburns guy and her stupid, stupid mantras.  
  
It wasn't normal for Jack to be left out of the loop.  
  
Not where Elsa was concerned.)

“Father... are there not thirteen Princes of the Southern Isles?”  
  
And despite everything, Jack could tell that Elsa was just as confused as he was, when the King answered.  
  
“That, my daughter, is a very simple question, with a very complicated answer.”

. * * * .

 


	63. - over dessert -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/3/14_. I totally listened to "[Coronation Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AfmXTlI14BA)" about half a million times while writing all these ball scenes. :( And "[Winter's Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4Fa0T9rWPI)," too.

 

. * * * .

_\- over dessert -_

. * * * .  


With introductions and dinner thankfully done and out of the way, the real party could finally start.  
  
And Jack had always _loved_ a good party.  
  
After all the weirdness of the Sideburns interaction, Jack hadn't even caught onto the Prince's request for Elsa's _second_ dance—until Jack learned that the King was already responsible for her first. And no matter what else had happened that evening, that moment, in and of itself, was pretty damn amazing.  
  
Because if there was one thing that made Elsa come alive— _besides her magic, besides her books or chess or sweet-lemon drinks or snowball fights_ —it was dancing.  
  
The first dance of the night with her father brought more than a few sappy tears to people's eyes, and Jack reminded himself that the King of Arendelle was actually a most beloved leader. Granted, he'd known the guy for a decade in not-the-most-flattering of circumstances, and had never really had anyone share his discontent with— _not even with Tooth, since she found out about the Queen thing, and especially not after she started to distance herself from him_ —and it was more than a little shocking, really, to see so clearly how this tender moment of celebration affected his faithful allies, his loyal friends... the wealth of family they'd had before he closed the gates of Arendelle. Before he cut them off from the rest of the world, for _years._ For better or worse.  
  
It didn't mean that Jack liked him. It didn't even mean that he understood him any better. It might not have meant anything at all.  
  
But for the first time in a long time, Jack was able to look at the King of Arendelle, and wonder about his life. His story.  
  
And then it was over, and in the span of a mere few minutes, the floor was overcome with dancers and colors and couples of all shapes and sizes. Sideburns inevitably stepped in to claim his secondary spot with a smile, but Jack was already over it. (Mostly.)  
  
Things were different now, after all.  
  
(This was what they'd _worked_ for.)  
  
So what if he wasn't used to seeing Elsa in large crowds of people, or discussing current events with ambassadors over dessert? (At the _dining_ table, no less.) So what if the days of mealtimes at her window were coming to an end, or likewise the simple habits of enjoying a quiet evening of books and disadvantaged chess? Elsa would one day be Queen, and she wanted to be ready for it, and she _deserved_ to be around other people— _no matter how strongly she argued that she was fine, alone_ —because like Rapunzel, Elsa was literally light and magic personified, and she deserved her happy ending, too.  
  
And he was just gonna have to get used to it.

. * * * .


	64. - wallflower -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/3/14_. Just keep listening to either of these on repeat, really. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Coronation Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AfmXTlI14BA)  
> [Winter's Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4Fa0T9rWPI)
> 
>  
> 
> Also. I really like this chapter, in particular. :(
> 
> See you in a week!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- wallflower -_  
  
. * * * .

Jack looked on from the sidelines, taking pride in his role as proud, watchful wallflower; Elsa looked so happy, and so bright, and Jack was certain beyond all certainty that even if she were not the main light of the event, Elsa would have been of the most coveted dance partners of the ball.  
  
Jack laughed to himself in the corner, and remembered that he owed Phil a _thank you_ for the introductory dance lesson.

And also, an apology—he'd never actually said sorry for stepping so many times on the yeti's feet.  
  
Elsa was clearly enjoying herself, and after a few restless laps around the castle grounds, Jack started to feel himself lighten up as well. (The episode at the top of the staircase behind the curtain had _passed_. Whatever came over Elsa was gone—for now. She was smiling. She was _happy_.) He flitted in and out between dance partners on the floor, almost always staying in her line of sight, and amused himself when Elsa was busy by frosting pretty lace patterns along the edges of the grand windows at the oceanfront. When he felt it safe enough to be at her side without too much distraction, that's where he found himself.  
  
He stood through much talk of many things, even though he only found about half of them interesting. ( _“Have you heard the wonderful news? Her highness, Rapunzel, the Lost Princess of Corona, has returned!_ ”) He amused them both by whispering funny criticisms of her suitors in her ear—some more jokingly than others. ( _“Y'know, I didn't think so many peacocks would be able to survive a winter of Arendelle...”_ ) And as the night wore on and Elsa gained more confidence, Jack somehow always ended up on a perch in the bannisters, his bare feet swinging high over so many fine heads of hair, where he could look on and see all with ease.  
  
Though in reality, there was only really one person he cared to see.

.

.

.

.

.

  
“ _Are you upset that you can't join her?”_ Tooth had asked him, almost three weeks before. Or was it two? The days and weeks were blending together in his mind. It was becoming more difficult to keep track.  
  
 _“I'm upset that I can't join her in a lot of things_ ,” Jack had replied, a bit abruptly, for the question had taken him completely by surprise, and he didn't like that he hadn't time to formulate his answer—and even worse, that his answer had been the truth. He'd scuffed his foot along the hardwood of North's workshop, and glanced at the others—locked in some irrational, heated dispute—and added a scoff to hide behind. _“A stuffy ball isn't one of them_.”  
  
Tooth didn't look like she believed him, and he supposed he didn't blame her.  
  
But what Tooth didn't realize was that, even if he _could_ join her—say, if he _were_ human—he would never have been part of Elsa's world, anyway.  
  
And not just her _world-_ world, in Arendelle. He didn't belong in this world of ballroom dancing and finery, or in politics and leadership. He'd been a poor Shepherd's boy the day he died and— _along with so many other things_ —that hadn't changed. He had not been born into privilege, and he'd had no grand desires to achieve it, save for warm sunshine and a warm home and a warm meal at the end of each day.  
  
(Fate did seem to have a sense of humor, occasionally.)  
  
But he didn't care about the intricate particulars of leading a life of royalty—not unless Elsa was the one to lead it. (Although... he'd been on the path to forgetting that too, hadn't he? Before this whole ball, anyway. It was hard to remember that one's best friend was a Princess when she cursed _frostbite_ more than you did.)  
  
The point was that he didn't _care_ about any of this stuff—the parties and high life and riches and castles. It was her private world of magic and friendship that mattered to him. Her quiet fondness and not-so-quiet wrath, and her steady logic and strictly-controlled emotion, the way she would occasionally let him throw bilberries into her mouth. The way she said his name.  
  
It was his Guardianship that had allowed him to know her at all.  
  
So, no.  
  
He wasn't upset that he couldn't be down there with her, twirling about the floor. ( _She, in her fine rosemaling dress, and he, in a fine suit and jacket, lost in the spinning crowd_.) At least—not in the sense that he'd have wished things could have played out differently, or that he'd have changed anything about their lives, or their friendship, or her future.  
  
Because this was all he could have ever Hoped for.

. * * * .


	65. - it takes -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/11/14_. Back! :) Utah was incredible. If any of you follow me on my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com) and have seen some of my trip pictures, you know just how incredible it was. <3 <3 However, hanging out in the desert for half a week and then coming home to dreary Boston has made getting back into the swing of writing frost babies preeeeeeeeetty difficult. 
> 
> Thus, this chapter is dedicated to **dragonsinparis** , who wrote me a really beautiful little review-note via tumblr. ;__________; I've been feeling really stuck, and her surprise message was what did the trick. Thank you!!
> 
> And thank you, socks, for giving this a read-through! (I've already apologized, but. I'll do it again. D: I'm so sorry.)
> 
> Two chapters for today! Because they're really meant to be read together. <3 <3

 

. * * * .

 _\- it takes -_  
  
. * * * .  


Soon enough, the party began to wind down. Few by few, the party-goers trickled out of the grand hall and gradually made their way towards their guestchambers, or out beyond the gates to wherever it was that they were staying. (Probably something to match the babble he'd been listening to nonstop, like _what fine, cozy service!_ and _such a quaint little inn!_ )  
  
Though for many, the party continued to stretch on _well_ past the midnight hour. Elsa danced with every available partner at least once... and some partners more than Jack thought was strictly polite.  
  
(He wouldn't have named names even if he _did_ remember what Stuffy Sideburns was actually called.)  
  
And as the night grew longer and guests grew tired, Jack himself began to feel heavy with the strange, exciting burden of change.  


. * * * .  


Once the staff had begun to make subtle starts at preparing the ballroom for rest— _clearing away the remaining plates, topping off wine bottles, drawing the curtains closed_ —Jack decided that it was finally time to come down from his perch and find Elsa, who had still been dancing up until only a few moments before. He found her with the orchestra, whom she was thanking graciously, and followed her from above as she made her rounds to each and every member of the staff, thanking them for their time and energy and kindness. Olga was especially delighted by her gratitude, but no one seemed very surprised; the Princesses of Arendelle were nothing if not well-mannered.  
  
In public, anyway.  
  
And for a brief, blissful moment, he actually thought that he'd gotten away with it—sneaking around from up above, watching as she bid her guests farewell—until she happened to dip behind a partition near the window—safe from the gaze of any remaining guests—and snatched his bare ankle mid-air. And pulled down. _Hard_.  
  
Thankful for three centuries' worth of refining his balance, Jack managed to fall somewhat steadily on his feet. Until Elsa threw her arms around him, at least.  
  
She'd pulled away before he'd even had much of a chance to right himself, and was thus left stumbling forward as she removed herself from his chest. (Which meant that, between the awkward weight of his staff and a sturdy shove of her hands on his shoulders, Jack was a hot flailing mess for much longer than he would have liked.)  
  
“Jack!” Elsa whispered, breathless and happy. “We _did_ it! Oh, it was wonderful, wasn't it? Did you see? So many people—and the whole time! I could—I could _focus_ and still enjoy myself—and the _dancing_! I could dance all night, I swear it. Honestly, Jack, I can't imagine there ever coming a time in my life when I should refuse a dance, or—did you see me? I rarely had an opportunity to rest, let alone the will! Well? Jack? What did you think?”  
  
Jack's face contorted with amusement as he repressed the urge to smile.  
  
(Elsa was always so careful with everything—her movements, her thoughts, her words—and to be the one on the other side of the incoherent rambling was strange enough as it was.  
  
But this was not the only change Jack had begun to notice this evening, and the weight of it was strong; trading his laughter for a smile ended up being a lot easier than he would have thought.)  
  
"I'm glad you had fun," Jack whispered.  
  
Elsa's expression softened, and she looked up at him the way she used to, grateful and fond and exasperated. A slight pressure settled over his chest, unfamiliar and familiar all the same, and he was sure that she was about to say something, when her head turned suddenly, and Jack realized that someone was calling her name.  
  
 _Oh, great_.  
  
“Princess Elsa?” said what's-his-face, Prince of Islands, and with another quick look of pleasant surprise at Jack, Elsa spun on her heel and left the safety of the partition. He could hear rather easily when she found the guy, not too far away.  
  
It took Jack a minute to follow.  
  
When he stepped into the open expanse of the ballroom, Prince Something-or-Other was already saying his goodbye. (That, Jack was okay with; it was the extended hand-kissing part of the goodbye that he really could have done without.) And even after the Prince left the ballroom, Elsa stood there, quiet and thoughtful, watching him go. Jack stood behind and waited; he could hear her sigh, even from so far away.  
  
Then she turned to him, looking happy and tired and admittedly a little overwhelmed.  
  
And maybe a little of something else, too, but Jack wasn't really certain he wanted to figure it out.  
  
“I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this,” she said quietly with a nervous laugh, like she'd intended it to be a joke, but it'd come out too honest.  
  
(Jack would know. He was probably the one who taught her that.)  
  
He merely stepped forward, slow and thoughtful, and hitched his staff over his right shoulder. He knew he was being quiet, and that she probably noticed. He should probably say something.  
  
“Your Majesty,” said a voice from off to the side, and it struck him again— _how different this was_ —and just how very little he was used to sharing. “Forgive me, but your father requests your presence in his study in ten minutes' time. He is finishing a private conversation with a guest and asks that you wait for him in the adjoining parlor until you are summoned.”  
  
It was then that Jack realized how few guests were actually remaining in the ballroom. Many of the staff members were already taking apart the tables— _lifting clean, white tablecloths and moving aside thickly-upholstered chairs_ —and the few partiers who still lingered were being escorted to their sleeping quarters with varying degrees of assistance.  
  
“Of course,” Elsa said brightly, with an awful lot of energy for someone who'd spent the last six hours or so dancing, and like always, didn't forget to say, “Thank you.”

  
. * * * .

They could hear clearly from the adjoining room that the other party was leaving.

( _And Jack's eyes must have been playing tricks on him,_  
 _because when Elsa stood straight in her beautiful ballgown_  
 _and knocked politely at her father's door—_  
 _—all he saw was Anna,_  
 _three feet tall,_  
 _imploring a cold wall of painted snowflakes_.)

  
By the time Jack realized that the door had opened, it was already beginning to close.  
  
Making it into the study in only just the nick of time, Jack took his post at Elsa's side; near enough that she could sense him— _if not through the feel of frost, then by mere intuition alone_ —but not so close that he would distract her from the others in the room. Just off to the side, and a little farther behind. So as not to get in the way.  
  
It was also a good distance away from the Queen.  
  
But Jack tried not to think too much about that.  
  
Elsa stood patiently before her father's stately desk, all open nerves and tightly-coiled patience. He was signing a fancy-looking document when they arrived, and it was a long time before he looked up.  
  
And then time seemed to move slowly and fluidly, like watching through a dream.  
  
Elsa and her father shared a moment—they looked at one another, really, _really_ looked at one another—and then she was rushing toward him, and they threw their arms around one another, locked in a crushing embrace. The King had barely made it past his desk.  
  
It was the first time they'd hugged in as long as Jack could remember.  
  
 _I am_ _so proud of you_ , the King told her—and Jack was, too—and he stood back and watched it all with the Queen; Jack was more aware of her presence than ever, but his awkwardness inevitably shifted... The happy moment stretched on, and rightfully so. But.  
  
When Elsa suddenly turned to her mother, it was no doubt affectionate, and filled with all the gratitude of a loving daughter; even her fondness, however, could not hide the fact that it was an afterthought.  
  
And from there on, Jack found his thoughts flitting in and out of focus in the most bizarre of ways. He felt so tired. He felt exhausted in a sense that he'd not felt in years.  
  
Centuries, even.  
  
Amidst all the family celebration—(but not really, not truly, because _where is Anna?_ )—one stray, lilting comment did catch Jack's attention, and then he was leaning forward, clutching tight to his tilted staff.  
  
“Your many graces have made my role as your match-making father both very easy and very difficult,” the King said lightly, a strange combination of stern and teasing that Jack had never heard before. Ever. “When the time comes for you to consider such things, you shall have no shortage of suitors. Several offers to court have already been made.”  
  
Elsa's eyes widened. Jack's jaw dropped.  
  
“ _Several?_ ” Elsa echoed, voicing Jack's own surprise.  
  
(But then again. Maybe he wasn't all that surprised.  
  
Not really.)  
  
Elsa and the Queen began to laugh, quiet and giddy, then louder with contentment, in a long, breathless train of release. Jack felt light, too— _dizzy_ —but his insides were twisting, because the significance of all this seemed so muddled, so caught up and tangled in so many different ways, and for once Elsa didn't seem to be immediately concerned with her powers interfering in her daily life, and that was great and all, really, except for the almost-crushing wave of panic that they'd just experienced a few hours ago and _am I the only one who remembers that?_  
  
“I've turned them all down, of course,” the King continued, losing some of the sternness around his edges. (He was _playing,_ Jack concluded belatedly. When had Jack ever seen him play?) The King was almost smiling when he looked at Elsa and quipped, “Sixteen is still far too young.”  
  
( _At what age, then?_ thought Jack, but the thought was lost before he could finish it, interrupted—)  
  
“From whom?” asked the Queen, smiling with delight. She came to stand beside her daughter, wrapping her elegant hands over the elegant sleeves of Elsa's shoulders. Elsa turned to her father with interest. Jack's stomach filled with lead.  
  
“A few dashing Lords,” answered the King, lips quirking with genuine happiness—a little pride, a little humor and, somehow, a world without concern. “Some from the North, as well as the South.”  
  
“And of the Southern Isles?”  
  
“Mother!” Elsa complained, twisting in her mother's grasp. The Queen only laughed, gently squeezing her daughter's arms. Jack scowled off to the side, frowning at the Queen.  
  
“Oh, come now—you clearly favored him, Elsa,” the Queen went on. “You danced with him at least thrice.”  
  
 _Thrice?_ What the hell was that? Was that supposed to be a number? Did that mean she danced with him _three_ times? _Where the hell was I?_  
  
Before Elsa had a chance to say anything, however, the King stepped in, a bit more seriously this time. “We have always made it very clear that Arendelle's rulers have an obligation to their people, first and foremost; marriage will come, but only after you have reigned as a leader of this kingdom. Our allies know this, and respect this.” The King paused. “Still. Our allies have not seen the harm in asking.”  
  
The three of them broke into quiet laughter, and Jack stood watching, wondering if he'd missed something.  
  
Hadn't they all been terrified out of their minds just that very evening? (Not that they would have said so, to each other's faces, out loud.) What about all the uncertainty over whether or not this ball would even happen in the first place? Jack believed in deserving a celebration more than just about anybody, but... This?  
  
Seriously?

( _What about her magic?_  
Jack wanted to scream.  
  
But instead,  
he stood silent.)  


“As it stands, Prince Henrik of the Southern Isles was courteously silent on the matter during our after-dinner talk,” the King added slyly, recapturing the Queen and his daughter's attention once more. As well as Jack's, reluctantly. “However, I should not be so surprised if his father were to reach out to us formally, once Prince Henrik returns home with news of the ball.” The King let out a soft sigh, deep and heavy, and satisfied. “You owe nothing, my dear, but should such a thing occur in the future, we may discuss it, if you so wish.”  
  
Elsa looked so overwhelmed when he turned to her. Flattered, and happy, but a little lost, too.  
  
“Father,” she said quietly. “There's something I want to ask you.”  
  
“Is it about Prince Henrik?” he joked.

  
“No. It's about Anna,” said Elsa. “I want to see her.”  
  
Jack did not have to be the King of Frost, nor of Winter, to feel the air in the room begin to freeze.

( _But it was all in his head. Elsa was perfectly in control._  
 _Her breaths were invisible, clear and silent from across the room._  
 _It was in the air._  
  
 _It was all in his mind_. )

“Tonight?” breathed the Queen, scarcely above a whisper.  
  
“No,” Elsa said quickly, pleading with her gaze. Jack stared at her, eyes wide and blank. Somehow, he'd been caught just as off guard as the King and Queen. “No, not tonight. But maybe—since tonight went so well, and—”  
  
“It was only one night, Elsa,” the King said quietly, deep, and tired. The clench of his jaw reappeared. The line of his shoulders stiffened.  
  
The King returned.  
  
And Elsa was staring at him like she didn't recognize him.  
  
“And I did well,” she insisted, her tone bordering on something that Jack couldn't quite place. Something that felt like defiance, but so much deeper. ( _More desperate_.)  
  
“Yes,” the King readily agreed. Firm, and unyielding.

( _And it was here—in this moment,_  
 _after almost ten years—that Jack realized_  
 _just exactly where_  
 _Elsa had learned how_  
 _to close herself_  
  
 _off_.)

Elsa swallowed.  
  
“I don't understand,” she said, impressively even. “You are perfectly content to sit here and make light of marriage proposals—”  
  
“Courting,” he corrected, point direct, tone gentle. “There is a difference. And they are mere proposals.”  
  
Her lips thinned. It was another moment before she found the words. “Father,” she tried again, firm and beseeching. “You speak so easily of one day creating a stronger alliance amongst our nations... yet the moment I request—”  
  
“ _Elsa, it is too soon!_ ” he snapped, and both Jack and the Queen stepped back, jolted by unsettling surprise. Jack's insides grew hot, uncomfortably jumbled, and the Queen's hand fluttered to her heart, pressing down on its cage, and Elsa was glaring up at her father— _actually_ glaring—and her father, staring down, stern and steadfast.  
  
Jack half-expected ice to come curling out of her mouth; the other half expected steam.  
  
And for a long moment, no one said anything.

  
“When?” Elsa demanded quietly, a single word in unbearable silence.  
  
The King cleared his throat, unfailingly courteous. “When we can be sure that it is safe,” he replied.  
  
It'd have been almost cold in its resoluteness, if not for the pain in his eyes.  
  
“When will I be strong enough?” Elsa whispered, voice tight with that ever-resounding self-discipline. “ _When?_ ” she breathed, her words a near hiss. “What must I _do_ to prove to you that I am powerful enough to control this?” The delicate chords wavered, only slightly, but Jack's chest constricted with the force of it. Sometimes, it was easier not to breathe.  
  
(Sometimes, he felt like a liar for even trying.)  
  
When she received no answer, Elsa asked, just a shade shy of bitterness, _unfailingly polite_ —  
  
“Father... how much longer must I wait?”

.

.

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. _  
_

(“ _However_  
 _long_  
  
 _it takes._ ” )

_  
._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_.  
_

. * * * .

 


	66. - each other's -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/11/14_. I keep forgetting to mention it, but sometime a while back this story made it to 300+ kudos! :) Thanks, everyone!
> 
> Also, speaking of numbers and stuff... remember when I thought this was gonna be 80 chapters?
> 
> Not anymore.
> 
> The new number you might see up there is /100 ~~and I'm hoping that it will stay that way~~. It's sort of an abstract estimate, sort of not. I decided I'm not giving myself a timeline on finishing this fic. :P I want to see this story through, and if that means I have to take a break from it during grad school terms, or randomly around chapter 70, or whatever, for a couple of months and then pick it back up again in chilly November, then that's what I can do. (Wouldn't be the first time, haha, ha, haaaaa....... ha.) 
> 
> I have a tendency to fall for seasonal stories, apparently. D:
> 
> Thanks again!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- each other's -_  
  
. * * * .

  
.

.

.  
  
(The Queen followed Elsa into the hall, but her words did little good.  
  
 _“We know you miss her_ ,” the Queen began, and Elsa interrupted her with, “ _Does she?_ ”  
  
The Queen paused.  
“ _Does she what, dear?”_  
  
Elsa's eyes were so very clear, and so very blue, and so very jaded.  
  
“ _Does she know that I miss her?_ ”

As the Queen searched for something to say, Elsa cut short her struggle.  
She apologized for her outburst and excused herself, so that she could finally retire to her room for the evening.  
The Queen hesitated, but there was little she could do; she had nothing more to say.  
She kissed her daughter's brow and whispered, _“We'll discuss this more carefully in the morning.”_  
  
“ _Yes, Mother_ ,” said Elsa, and Jack knew that she wouldn't.  
  
She was already shutting down.)  
  
.

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.

  
. * * * .

  
Elsa returned to her room without a word. She passed a single servant in the halls— _his arms full of clean linens—_ and Elsa gave a simple curtsy instead of a _hello_. The halls were so dark and silent compared to an evening of light and laughter in the banquet hall; now, there were only the sounds of her gentle footsteps along the carpet. Jack's feet didn't make a sound.  
  
She held her head high the entire way back.  
  
The bedroom door opened, thick and heavy. It swung on its old, neglected hinges, and to Jack it sounded as mournful as a set of iron bars. He trailed in behind her, hoping to catch her attention as she turned to close the door shut, but she kicked it with the back of her heel. She didn't look back as the sound echoed through the room.  
  
For a moment, Jack was almost certain that she'd forgotten he was there.  
  
And when she walked directly to the grand canopy bed and collapsed onto its end, Jack honestly didn't know what to do.  
  
Half of him wondered if she might actually, truly— _impossibly_ —want to be alone; the other half believed that she expected him to join her on the other side of the room. She was probably waiting, wondering what was taking him so long.  
  
But still, Elsa said nothing.  
  
Finally, Jack walked his way to the bed. He considered her for a moment, curled near the edge on her side, staring blankly at the intricate carvings of the headboard. Her gloved hands had become her pillows.  
  
“He trusts me to dance with his allies,” Elsa said quietly, eyes straight ahead. “But not to be in the same room as his daughter.”  
  
Jack felt very strangely about that; he did not like being in situations where he felt compelled to defend the King.  
  
“You're his daughter, too,” Jack said softly, hating the bad taste the words left in his mouth. “He'll see reason... eventually. We'll make him see.”  
  
“I know we will,” Elsa said, almost impatiently.  
  
Jack could only look at her. Her conviction, so soon after such silence— _after such fear_ —it surprised him. ( _It worried him._ )  
  
“Then... are you angry that he's considering your offers from the suitors, or—?”  
  
“He's not considering them,” she replied shortly. “He won't, not for however many years it takes for me to control myself,” she added, eyes narrowing. “Marriage will ensure that I am no longer under his immediate protection. Should I fail to conceal my powers, he will not be there to whisk my husband and his kingdom off to a garden of trolls.”  
  
Jack stood silent, astounded.  
  
“Then... back in his study... why—?”  
  
“Why all the talk, then? About match-making and marriage?”  
  
Jack could hardly nod. Not that she was looking.  
  
Elsa didn't answer right away.  
  
“It was nice, wasn't it?” she said softly, with a straight-ahead gaze that must have seen something so much more than just the wood carvings etched at the opposite end of the bed. “Pretending that we were a normal family, for once.”  
  
Jack merely stood and watched her, letting her words settle over him.

( _He'd been very selfish that evening._  
  
 _Hadn't he?_ )

  
Before he could think twice, his staff was against the night table. He climbed onto the bed and sat facing her, his legs crossed and tucked beneath him. His hands fell loosely in his lap.  
  
“I still dream about that sometimes,” she admitted quietly, unblinking. “About what it'd be like, if I were born without this magic...I know you don't like to hear me talk like this.”  
  
“Elsa... it's not—”  
  
“I understand,” Elsa interrupted. “And I... I don't necessarily like when I talk like this either. I don't like these _what-if_ dreams because the fact of the matter is that I _do_ have these powers, for better or worse, and Anna has none, and I am intended to be Queen, and you, my Guardian.”  
  
Jack said nothing. He only listened.  
  
“But sometimes I feel like those are the best dreams I've ever had... The ones in which I was born differently. It's funny,” she said suddenly. “In those dreams, my hair is always brown. Like my mother's. As if something like that should matter.”  
  
Back Jack didn't hear.

( _Instead, he saw a_ __f_ lash of Memory. Of Rapunzel's once-long hair, golden by magic. _

It's completely different, _Jack thought;_  
 _Elsa's magic ran deeper, from whatever source,_  
 _something more than just a flower..._  
  
 _And yet._  
  
 _The coincidence was startling_.)  


“It was nice to pretend, even if only for a minute,” Elsa added, prying Jack from his whirring thoughts. “To joke and laugh about mundane things like balls and marriage... and then I had to go and ruin it. What I've been working toward all this time—ridding my parents of the fear that I've helped nurture for almost a decade... _That's_ what I wanted to prove tonight. But it wasn't enough,” Elsa whispered. “How foolish I was, to think myself ready after a few spins about the dance floor... I know I am not yet ready,” Elsa admitted quietly. “And the fact that I actually suggested as much only proves how greatly I am not.”  
  
“Elsa,” Jack scolded. “That's not fair.”  
  
“You were there tonight,” she reminded him, as if she hadn't heard him at all. “When I very nearly fell apart. I could have done it, so easily.”  
  
“But you didn't,” Jack insisted. “You _didn't_.”  
  
“Because of you,” Elsa said.

( _It hit him_  
like a punch to the gut.)  


“What if something happens again, and you're not around?” she pointed out.  
  
“I”m always around,” Jack argued quickly, but Elsa only smiled. That was how he knew he'd lost.  
  
“Not always,” she said softly. “You have more in the world than just me. You're around as much as you can be, but there are times when I'll need to function without you. What I need to learn is _how_ ,” Elsa told him honestly. “How to control the panic when it comes. How to calm myself the way you calmed me tonight.”  
  
Jack didn't know what to say; although he believed in what she was saying with his whole heart— _she needs to be safe, and strong, and unafraid—_ the idea that she might one day need him _less_ did strange, terrible things to his chest.  
  
“I know,” Jack said softly, trying not to get lost in the darkness. “I know.”  
  
They were both silent, then, for a while.  
  
“I'm going to find a way to prove it to them,” Elsa quietly vowed. “To prove that I can keep Anna safe. I won't have us live without one another for much longer... I _will_ convince them that I am strong enough to control this—this _magic_ , and I will see Anna again, and open the gates, and live in a world without fear... And I will spend years trying to rebuild the closeness we once had,” Elsa quietly declared.  
  
Her eyes filled with tears.  
  
And then she echoed her father's words, quiet and determined and resigned, “However long it takes.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

( _He was a fool._  
  
 _All this night, he'd been brooding—and about what?_  
 _Not being able to dance with her? Worrying that he may no longer have her all to himself?_  
 _Wondering if she'd already moved past his silly games and tricks?_  
  
 _He really was a selfish bastard,_  
 _wasn't he?_ )  


He pressed his lips together, as if that might keep the lump in his throat at bay, and did something for the second time that night, twice as many times as he'd done in the last three years: he reached out his fingers and gently trailed them through the soft strands of hair at her brow.  
  
But even that didn't seem to be enough. His fingers fluttered through her bangs once more, careful not to touch her skin, then floated his hand into the air, just above her ear. He considered it again, but hesitated.  
  
“Jack?” Elsa breathed, questioning and abrupt—so much different from the steady sureness he'd heard just moments before.  
  
He swallowed hard before answering.  
  
“Yes?” he responded, uncomfortably formal. (It'd felt so natural, so easy, to brush his fingers through her hair before the ball.) _Stupid. So fucking stupid_ —he'd overstepped some boundary, some forgotten line. He knew it.  
  
But instead of answering, Elsa slowly lifted herself up, and all the while Jack couldn't help but notice how perfect her hair still was, even after so many hours of dancing and such long minutes of heartbreak; only a few minor strands had fallen out of place, but for the most part, he'd actually done a pretty decent job, hadn't he, and _shit—Elsa—why are you taking off your gloves?_  
  
“ _Elsa_ —”  
  
But the rest of his words died in his throat. She was facing him still, but now they were knee-to-knee— _hers touching his_ —and, slowly and deliberately, Elsa removed each of her gloves.  
  
Her hands were steady.  
  
And when they reached forward into his lap and pulled his bare hands between them— _a gentle hold, just the barest trace of fingers, and he was too shocked, too frozen, to give any resistance—_ her hands were almost warm.  
  
She rested them in the small space between their ankles, atop the waves of her skirts. She curled her fingers around his palms, in a way that was neither practical nor sensible for hand-holding, until his open palms lay still in her gently-closed ones, bare skin on bare skin.  
  
Jack forced himself to breathe.  
  
“Do you have have any idea,” Elsa whispered, no louder than the waves upon the shore. “How long it has been since I simply held someone's hands?”  
  
He stared down at the link between them, at this unbelievable, incredible, invisible power they held in their hands and— _for the first time_ —in each other's.  
  
Jack swallowed, though the fresh wave of emotion in his throat didn't disappear.

( _He wondered if it ever would_ .)

He inhaled deep, and then curled his fingers around hers. He clasped them tight around her hold. Probably even tighter than hers.  
  
“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” she asked, breathlessly, staring down at the hands between them. ( _Does she see what I see?_ he wondered, as if he had any idea, himself.)  
  
“Yeah,” Jack rasped, then coughed, embarrassingly, and said, “Yeah. Of course.” But it didn't feel like enough.  
  
“Thank you.”

And for the first time since they left the ballroom, Elsa looked him in the eye.

Jack did not speak, but somehow found the strength to give her hands— _bare, and inside his_ —a silent, gentle squeeze.

.

.

.

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.

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.

. * * * .  
  
No nightmares came to Elsa that night;  
Jack stayed just until dawn, so he was certain.  
  
(He waited until after he'd drawn the covers about her slender frame, over the wrinkles of her elegant ballgown.  
Until after he'd taken up the window seat— _her usual resting spot_ —as his perch.  
After he'd carefully disentangled his hands from hers.)  
  
Elsa slept peacefully through the night, with no trace of black sand above her head.  
  
And not a single trace of gold, either.  
  
. * * * .


	67. - stir-crazy -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/16/14_. Hello again! :) I'm going to try to answer a bunch of the comments/questions that have been piling up for the last week or so, and I'm going to try to stick to a one-update-a-day schedule for the next couple of days. Wish me luck! :)

.

.

**( V )**

.

.

. **  
**

**. * * * .**

And as Jack slowly came to realize,  
things weren't really all that different.  
  
Except for the ways in which they were.  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
\- _stir-crazy -_  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
  . _January_ .  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

 _(“No more hiding._ ”)

_._

_._

After the ball, Jack could hardly wait until the following evening to propose that they start training again— _immediately_ —but Elsa was more logical; she desperately wanted to resume her training, yes, but she also wanted to keep up their ruse, too. ( _“For Anna's sake.”_ ) He didn't like it, but he couldn't argue.  
  
(Or rather, couldn't argue _well_.)  
  
So they divided their time between creation and control, between learning to enhance her powers and rehearsing how to keep them buried. They worked within small scales, focusing on precision and detail, conjuring and shaping and carving; they created only a little at a time, to better focus, yes, but more so to easily hide her creations, should Olga chance to stop by... and because it was easier to let her creations melt, that way.

The strange, overwhelming sensation Elsa experienced the night of the ball did not reoccur.  
  
But Jack did not forget.  
  
(It was called a _panic attack_ , according to North, and aptly named. It was defined by his modern dictionaries as ' _a sudden feeling of acute and disabling anxiety_ '.  
  
Though that really didn't seem to cover it.)  
  
So Elsa and Jack considered their strategies for that, too, regarding breathing exercises and calming tactics, some of which sounded hokier than others, in Jack's opinion. ( _“I'm building a repertoire,”_ she reported, a tad defensively, which Jack thought was a pretty fancy way of saying that she was essentially creating emergency back-up Plans B through K for when shit hit the fan; he wasn't pleased when she settled Plan A on an all too familiar anchor, a string of despicable mantras, but really, what could he expect?)  
  
So that's what they did, holed up in her room all day. Making mere model projects of grand fortresses— _while the real architecture existed outside, far beyond the closed-again gates_ —and spinning snow into mere scraps by the window— _while blizzards raged on miles away, roaring and relentless and beautiful._ She had taken to leaving her gloves on the nightstand, when alone in her room. Elsa refused to call it an act of defiance, but Jack could see it for what it is. ( _She was in the most control he'd ever seen her—and consistently._ )  
  
They talked technicalities and worst-case scenarios, laughed and joked and flicked snow crumbs into one another's eyebrows, and relearned what it was like, to have their little world all to themselves.

( _Jack had come to realize something very important since the night of the ball._  
  
 _And not just in the sense that he'd always known_ — _because he_ had— _but more like a physical blow,_  
 _a slow-settling weight on his shoulders, with rapid, startling clarity:_  
 _that one day, Elsa would be free of these walls._  
  
 _To watch her share mealtimes and dances_  
 _with family and guests—to watch her have to pretend like he wasn't there—_  
 _would be nothing compared to watching her rule a kingdom._  
 _To see her sit upon a throne and decide the fate of an entire people, again and again and again._  
 _To follow her onto a ship, the first day she went overseas. Her coronation._  
  
 _Her wedding day._  
  
 _This little world was theirs, and he treasured it._  
 _And he was going to have to start considering the full scope of that,_  
 _because the Memories would have to last him for an eternity._ )

  
But the truth of the matter was, he was starting to feel a little stir-crazy, too.  
  
(Jack Frost was beginning to feel like _he_ was locked up in a cage, and that'd never been a feeling he much liked, either in life or after death.)  
  
 _“You don't have to stay here all day, if it bothers you,”_ Elsa had gently tried one evening, after hours of his restless, fidgety pacing, and it hadn't occurred to Jack right away, how much that attempt of courtesy and consideration had hurt him.  
  
(It took twice as long for him to remember that it'd probably hurt her, too.)  
  
She had been trying to let him know that she would be fine on her own— _knew that he was unhappy playing this game, this never ending tide of hide-and-wait_ —but Jack, for all his quick-thinking, had never been known for his logic or rationality when it came to stuff like this, and he couldn't quite put into words, exactly, how upset he was that she would try to send him away with so slight an invitation, with so noble a reason.  
  
 _“We're in this together,_ ” he'd told her resolutely, from the cold floor of an ever-shrinking room.  
  
And that had been that.

. * * * .

 


	68. - always conflicted -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/17/14_.

. * * * .  
  
\- _always conflicted -_  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

 _. * * * ._  
  
. _February_ .  
  
. * * * .

Winter was especially harsh that year, and Jack knew it in his gut that Mother Nature had started to take notice; she didn't often deign to actually acknowledge the Guardians, let alone speak to them, but Jack knew her warning in the brittle chill of his usual mountain cold, a little extra howl in his wind. And frankly, Jack couldn't find it in himself to give a damn.  
  
The townspeople were especially vocal about their discontent as well, trudging day after day through sludge and sleet, longing for the weeks of sunshine and summertime. _Has it always been this way?_ Jack wondered, repeatedly, more than he'd care to admit. It must have been. Jack wasn't entirely sure where his newfound sensitivity to this favoritism had come from, but he had a feeling that spending so many days on the Southern shores of sunny Corona with a beloved, newly-crowned Princess and her adoring kingdom probably had something to do with it.

.

.

.

.

( _A strange cloud of Memory drifted in, dispersing the bitterness._  
  
 _Of Bunnymund, speaking of what it took to break a Guardian._  
  
 _Rapunzel had been imprisoned from a time even before she could walk, for reasons she could only barely understand._  
 _She'd never chosen for any of that to happen to her, her magic or her false life, and it gutted him, in more ways than one,_  
 _the way that she learned of her true identity, that the first conscious decision Rapunzel had to make as the Lost Princess—_  
 _was to stay._  
  
 _To sacrifice herself to Gothel, to protect Eugene, to remain forever bound to a life of chains._  
  
 _“I know a thing or two about watching children grow up in cages,” Bunny grimly declared._  
 _“You learn real quick that chains aren't always visible... But that doesn't make them any less real._  
 _Before, you think—which is worse?_  
 _Chains are still chains, whether you feel them against your skin, or not._  
 _But then you see the real thing, iron rust biting into their wrists and gags in their mouths, and can't do nothin' 'bout it._  
  
 _There ain't no erasin' a Memory like that, kid._  
 _There ain't hardly nothin' worse than that._ ”)

_._

_._

_._

_.  
_

The gates were closed, and the ships were long gone from the harbor. February was filled with the sharp scent of winter and empty halls and quiet darkness, of a castle settling back into the subdued steadiness of old routine with terrifying ease. Jack felt the cold of winter in ways he hadn't felt in many, many years.

The King and Queen made it a point to visit Elsa at least four times a week, for a special lunch in a cozy room near the library.  
  
Anna's busy schedule always conflicted.

. * * * .

 

 

 


	69. - quite hopeless -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/19/14_. Finished my 10k road race today! As a treat to myself, I'm going to do a bit of a writing marathon. No beta-ing, no proofreading until later. Just writing for fun, and to get some momentum going. :P

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _quite hopeless_ -  
  
. * * * .

Neither of them ever really talked about it, but hand-holding had somehow become a thing.  
  
When he was instructing her on how to shape her bare fingers or loosen her hands, he reached out now and took them, molded them as he pleased. When he tried to move one of her chess pieces for her, she slapped his hand away. It wasn't all that uncommon, the brush of her fingers over his as she pointed to something in her book. Or when she flipped a page, even if he was the one who was supposed to do it—probably because he wasn't moving fast enough, and her patience with him was growing surprisingly, amusingly short.  
  
Sometimes, he took her by the hand for no reason at all.

( _Maybe to prove to himself that he was still there.  
That ten years of trust and friendship allowed him to._ )

And sometimes, it struck him again, warm and blinding, that he was the only one who could.

.

.

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.  
  
The fact that Anna _couldn't_ ,   
didn't escape him.

.

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.

.

.

  
. * * * .  
  
. _March ._  
  
. * * * . 

“That's a lovely tune,” he chirped, popping his head into view.  
  
“ _Jack!_ ” she gasped, spinning round the vanity seat with her hand plastered over her no-doubt pounding heart. “How many _times_ have I told you—”  
  
“What's it from?” he demanded, all playful grin, hanging down from the canopy of her bed with a single hand. His staff dangled low beneath his waist, and he rather felt like an ape; Elsa might have declared the similarity herself, had she not been still reeling with shock.  
  
“I—Jack, you _know_ how alarming it is when you pop in like that!”  
  
“I do,” he agreed, finally releasing his hold on the fine wood. His feet plopped to the floor with silent grace and a swift bend to the knees; Elsa sat across the room at the vanity, arms crossed, looking... cross.  
  
“ _Yes_ , and—and how many—”  
  
“Seventeen,” Jack answered absently, striding closer. He could sort of see himself drawing nearer in the reflection cast behind her, in the vanity's large, thickly-framed mirror. “That's how many times you've scolded me for _popping in_ , as you would say—unless you were asking how many snowballs I might have pelted the towns children with this morning, in which case, the answer is still the same.”  
  
So it was still snowing mid-March. (So what?)  
  
“How accountable,” she said sternly, gently tapping her fingers over her sleeve. She was frowning up at him, still visibly flustered—but only visible to him, because _he_ knew what that looked like, in the subtle clenching of her jaw, and the too-stiff tension of her shoulders. She was embarrassed at having been caught, but Jack was feeling so giddy that it was actually sort of difficult to care.  
  
He knew he should really make it a point not to tease her, so that she might one day actually _let_ him hear her sing once, but he just couldn't help himself.   
  
It wasn't in his nature.

“Are you really not gonna tell me?” he asked in a sudden plea, tilting back-and-forth over whether or not she'd be more sympathetic to a whine. He hopped onto a nearby bookshelf, making himself at home along the top row of books, the way he sometimes did along a thick branch of a tree. Or a banister. Or her father's throne during really important meetings.

“You are quite hopeless,” she mused through an exasperated sigh, and Jack grinned at the usual display of fondness.  
  
“The Guardian of _Hope_ , actually, would argue otherwise,” Jack contended, then paused, and amended, “Probably.”  
  
“Probably,” she echoed, with a smirk, and laughed when he frowned.

. * * * .

 


	70. - perhaps inevitably -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/19/14_.

. * * * .  
  
\- _perhaps inevitably -_  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
. _April_ .  
  
. * * * .

Perhaps inevitably, the topic of marriage _did_ come up, once or twice.  
  
And afterwards, Jack wasn't quite sure what to think.  
  
Elsa fully accepted the institution of marriage, but didn't believe in the idealization of it. ( _“I am looking for companionship, and love, but not necessarily romance.”_ ) The intricate role of marriage—and its complicated, sometimes bloody course throughout history—was too tightly twisted into all of the obligations of her birthright, the privilege and the sacrifice. ( _Of tainted value,_ in her mind.) Elsa could appreciate the commitment, and the loyalty, but her marriage would be about a union of kingdoms, rather than just of two individuals. ( _“It would be about trust, yes, but on a much grander scale... Arendelle greatly values its alliances.”_ )  
  
However, just because _she_ wasn't suited to the idea of romance didn't mean to say that she disagreed with the idea of _others_ marrying for love, or even that she thought any less of those rare few who chose to love without marriage; Jack listened to her explanation as patiently as possible, hoping to see if he could get a better grasp on what she was trying to tell him.  
  
But afterwards, all that'd done was confuse him more.  
  
In a way, he _could_ sort of understand Elsa's view— _marriage certainly never put food on_ his _family's rickety table, though_ love _did—_ and yet, there was something deeply unsettling in the casual, almost resigned way she spoke of everlasting commitment. Jack hadn't ever really allowed himself to think about things like that as a Shepherd's boy, and it wasn't like he'd had the best role models to develop a sense of marriage through, and he didn't really fancy himself a romantic, but— _you know what?_ —maybe he _was_ a bit of a romantic—deep, _deep,_ deep down—who'd just never had the chance to try, and there wasn't really anything wrong with that, in a general manner of speaking, was there?  
  
Aside from the whole immortality thing, and the whole _Guardians are not encouraged to love_ thing. Supposedly. Whatever.  
  
Maybe he'd find out there was some garden-nymph for Earth Day, or something.

( _And if such a strange thing as_ magic _could exist,_  
 _then..._  
  
 _Maybe_ — )

( _“So what_ do _you value, then?”_ Jack had asked, fully prepared to crack a joke about shoe sizes, wondering if she'd catch on, wondering if it was too much, too soon—  
  
“ _Freedom_ ,” she'd said, and Jack had gone quiet.)  
  
The part that worried him the most, though, was how strongly Elsa wished happy, lasting marriages for others. For those who _did_ believe strongly in the power of love.  
  
For Anna.

. * * * .


	71. - sworn on -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/19/14_.

. * * * .  
  
 _\- sworn on -_  
  
 _(his staff)_  
  
. * * * .  
  
Or, an Admittedly Not Very Long List of ~~All~~ Most of the Things the Other Guardians Didn't ( _Shouldn_ 't) Know About:

1\. Jack Frost was not foolish enough to make promises, but he liked to surprise people, when he could; granted, the actual surprise factor was debatable when he made good on his commitment of spicing up a little aristocratic dancing, but as he'd said before, his surprises for Elsa were growing fewer and farther in between. (At this point, this was probably the best he could do.)  
  
The fact that Jack was teaching Elsa a little more-to- _his_ -style dancing was _not_ on the list; the fact that he'd smuggled a 'borrowed' iPod and matching speakers set into Arendelle _was._  
  
(He figured it couldn't be _that_ bad. He was breaking the rules, yeah, but seriously, North gave her ballpoint pens for Christmas when she was eleven, one of which _exploded_ , so who was the rule-bender here, really?)

2\. Elsa was reading North's journal saga for the fifth time. She was taking notes. North was never, ever learning of this. Ever.

3\. Jack's schedule had begun to look a little lopsided once more, but he'd have sworn on his staff that his Guardian duties weren't being neglected. Really. He'd taken an oath—had actually already sworn on his staff once, so he could totally do it again—and he intended to see it through. But he had a special assignment, and things were a little shaky in Arendelle, so really. It was only logical.   
  
He was higher in demand in Arendelle, was all.

4\. Jack knew that, most nights, the Queen preferred to take her after-dinner tea alone.

. * * * .


	72. - of strategy -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/20/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _of strategy_ -  
  
. * * * .  
  
  
Or, that (one) time that Jack beat Elsa at chess.  
  
. * * * .

“You cheated.”  
  
Jack's eyes widened. He wasn't particularly _opposed_ to the idea in general— _all in good fun, of course_ —but for the most part, Jack liked to think that he could earn a solid victory without resorting to underhanded schemes. (Cheap tricks, occasionally, but he was proudly open about those, afterwards.) He wasn't exactly used to outright accusations.  
  
Especially when they came from Elsa.  
  
“Um... sorry?”  
  
His mouth was probably still hanging open, but he hadn't quite worked out how to close it again, so preoccupied was he with Elsa's own slackened jaw. Her eyes were glued to the chess pieces on the board, widened in shock and dismay, and Jack had had a _feeling_ that maybe moving one of those pawns would be a lucky move, but—?  
  
“Uh... sorry, I—I don't really know what you mean?” Jack winced, then once more, when he realized that his voice had started rising in pitch. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, as his head and hands worked in jerky, miniscule shifts as he tried not to squirm on the window seat. “Like—I still don't actually know what _I'm doing at chess?_ ”  
  
 _Goddammit_.  
  
Elsa's eyes snapped to his, effectively freezing him to the spot. It was unfortunate that his hands just happened to be splayed in really twisted, contorted gestures as part of some convoluted explanation his brain had still been trying to fire up.  
  
“Sorry,” Elsa muttered, then forced a swallow. Little by little, Elsa cleared her expression... until it flushed, just a gentle pink along her cheekbones—over the bridge of her lightly-freckled nose—and then she was clearing her throat, too, and said, more firmly, “I'm sorry. That wasn't... isn't very good sportsmanship, is it?”  
  
 _That wasn't like me_ , was what he'd thought she was going to say.  
  
But yeah. He guess it wasn't that, either.  
  
“Yeah,” he echoed slowly, carefully lowering his hands to rest on his thighs. He couldn't help but notice sometimes, how much more he slouched in her presence. ( _Like he was slouching enough for the two of them._ ) “I guess not.”  
 __  
Wait a minute.  
  
“Holy fractal—are you saying I _won_?”  
  
Elsa's eyes widened. (Surprise, confusion, understanding, and— _there it is_ —exasperation.)  
  
“You truly don't know chess... do you?” she eyed him archly, with just a tilt of a teasing smirk. “Even after all these years?”  
  
“If I agree, will that help soften the blow of your shameful _defeat_?”  
  
A pillow met him square in the nose. (And not one of those soft ones either. A scratchy one.)  
  
“Chess is a game of strategy, Jack Frost,” she answered him tightly, eyes glowing with challenge. “Consider this your one and only lucky shot, Mr. Frost, for I shall not be distracted _again._ ”  
  
And he whole-heartedly believed her, one-hundred-percent, but, “Can you _count_ on it, Your Majesty?”  
  
“A Princess does not _gamble_ , Jack Frost, unless the reward is worth the risk.”  
  
 _Does anyone?_ “Well—you being so good with strategy and all—this should be no problem.”  
  
A slow smile spread over Elsa's lips, and Jack only began to realize then, in the far, screaming corner of his mind, the full extent of what he'd done.  
  
“Lovely,” Elsa whispered, voice like velvet, eyes like a hawk, and Jack stared back with an amused quirk of his brow—his only foolproof defense. “What's your wager?”  
  
Wager. Wager. _What the hell am I wagering?_  
  
“If I win...” Jack said slowly, making sure that Elsa heard him, heard every word.  
  
(There was only one thing _to_ wager.)  
  
“You let me hear you sing,” he finished evenly, and his nose twitched with a smirk. He was feeling awfully smug for someone who'd yet to actually win anything.  
  
Elsa looked appalled. “ _Tonight?_ ”  
  
“No—look, it doesn't _have_ to be soon, all right? Just, like, before Christmas or something. Yeah. Actually. Let's put a deadline on it.”  
  
“A _dead_ line?”  
  
“No! No—it's a—never mind. Let's put a _date_ on it, all right? If I win, you let me hear you sing, sometime before this year's Christmas. Or before the end of the New Year. Okay?”  
  
Elsa considered this. She wasn't pleased, but she was considering it.  
  
“All right,” she agreed, eyes agleam with calculation. “And if _I_ win—”  
  
“I take you flying? We check out the Northern Lights? We sneak out to mountains and prank the ice miners?”  
  
“You go back to your world, for two whole weeks.”  
  
What _._  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Don't think I haven't noticed how little attention you've been paying the rest of the world, Jack Frost,” she teased, though the wagging, accusatory finger seemed genuine enough. “If I win, I demand that you spend two whole weeks back in your own realm, playing catch-up on all of the Guardian duties you've no doubt been shirking while you've been here, with me, frosting my inkwells so I'm forced to give my attention to _you_ instead of my studies.”  
  
Was it worth it to argue?  
  
“I've changed my mind. I don't like this bet.”  
  
“Of _course_ you don't like this bet,” she reasoned, through a sigh of what could only be a complete, wholly inconvenient understanding of his character. “You're obviously not going to win.”  
  
 _Obviously_. He'd only been betting any of this at all as part of some stupid game and, _well_ , he probably shouldn't have sounded so serious about it, yeah, but he'd thought they'd _both_ just been playing along and fucking fractal, wow, that really had been a fucking stupid move on his part, hadn't it, and shit, he'd actually managed to somehow win himself a game of _chess_? (With _this_ brain?)  
  
This little game of his was poorly framed from the start. A rather one-sided private joke on his end and, _oh_ , look—now the joke was on him.  
  
“Spectacular,” he deadpanned.  
  
Elsa only laughed, light and free. He flopped back against his wall in retaliation, watching in overtly petulant dismay as Elsa reset the pieces on the board. Not long after, and mostly out of spite, he toed over her Queen— _its heavy weight rolled it to the center of the board, and beyond, where it knocked over half his army_ —and she pushed his feet away with a stern look of _how old are you—seven?_ and glared at him until he sat up and helped her arrange the pieces. (Too bad he was particularly skilled at stalling, and she was far too trusting with him, sometimes, so it was less than a minute before all of the pieces were mismatched teams of salt and pepper across the board, which prompted a lot of pushing— _on her part_ —and hissing, cackling laughter— _on his_ —and it was only after she took his knight hostage— _as well as his left arm_ —that he realized just how hopeless this was, and how worth it, it'd been.)  
  
They played some more and, eventually, played chess. They never really, officially agreed on the bet, in the end.  
  
But Jack ended up following through with her demands, anyway.  
  
Like he always did.

. * * * .

 


	73. - snow women -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/20/14_.

 

. * * * .

It wasn't easy, those two weeks.  
  
But he did them, because Elsa asked him to.  
Because she was right.

. * * * .  
.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
\- _snow women_ -  
  
. * * * .

Or, a Rather Telling List of (Lists of) How Jack Frost Spent His Time Away from Arendelle:  


 **Objects Destroyed, on Accident:**

  * (3) Bunnymund's eggs; two through an unfortunate backwards step, one from a miscalculated aim in a game of toss with a rock creature, whatever they were called.
  * (2) mailboxes. (Don't ask.)
  * (5) water fountains; three from a particularly cold blizzard in Boston, one in London, and one in Orlando, the last of which he was determined to forget ever happened.
  * (42) basement pipes, and he was rather proud of that. ( **Objects Created, on Accident:** (42) indoor swimming pools.).
  * (2) public bus engines, and he really _was_ sorry about that.



**  
Objects Destroyed, on Purpose:**

  * Nothing. ( _Bunny can't prove anything_.)



  
**Trouble Started:**

  * . (More than was _solved_ , that was all that mattered.)



  
**Snow Days:  
**

  * ( _Technically unquantifiable, but:_ )
  * (74) districts
  * (3,106) schools
  * (9,726,834) kids playing in the snow
  * (6,235,117) parents with a day off from work
  * (Also, Two-Hour Delays didn't count; those were _weak_.)



  
**Snow Men:**

  * (2,678,964)
  * (1) reinstated goal to make one, with Anna, as soon as possible. (Probably next winter. Dammit.)



  
~~**Snow Women:** ~~

  * Just kidding. ( _Goddammit, Bunny, it was a_ joke _, for fuck's sake._ )



  
**Reasons Jack Came Up with for Heading Back to Arendelle Early:**

  * (12) reasons; including the crazy one about something setting off an eternal winter, _everywhere_.



_**  
Believable** _ **Reasons:**

  * (0)



  
**Moments in Which He Missed Arendelle:**

  * (1,209,600) seconds; or, at least, that's what Sandy told him when he asked for the calculations.



  
**Pranks He Planned:**

  * (18) individual pranks; nineteen, if you counted a two-part heist on Henrik-Sideburns, but he was trying to keep that one on the down-low, _so_.
  * (2) grand schemes; both of which he would never put into action, but were nice to think about.
  * (1) joke on Bunny and _oh my god_ , they were _never_ discussing that again; ever.



  
**Minutes by Which Jack Believed He Could Return to Arendelle Early, Without Suspicion:  
**

  * (7) minutes; if he entered through the back entrance and hung around the hallways for a little bit before actually going round back to her window and knocking on the glass like he _hadn't_ just been messing around awkwardly in her castle.



  
**Minutes by Which Jack** _**Did** _ **Return to Arendelle Early:**

  * (12) minutes; because he was an impatient bastard who knew that she missed him just as much as he missed her, anyway.



  
. * * * .


	74. - love (after)life -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/21/14_. Prepare for an _onslaught_ of chapter updates tonight! I am on vacation and feeling particularly motivated. :)
> 
> Special thanks to SOCKS and ALISON for all the beta-ing! <3 <3 
> 
> And a shoutout to AICOSU, too. ;) You know why.......

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _love (after)life_ -  
  
. * * * .

.

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. * * * .  
  
( _still_ )  
  
. _April_ .

. * * * .

  
“Did you know that prolonged exposure to fine, densely-packed text can result in needless eye strain?” Jack quipped from the edge of her bed, his leisurely sprawl a stark contrast to the grave solemnity of his expression. He turned the page of the book he was 'reading', unhurried and unimpressed. “Interesting stuff.”  
  
Elsa peered at him over her shoulder. She was draped over the rather uncomfortable-looking chair by the window, the one she'd started to favor somewhere around age fourteen. He didn't know why she didn't just take up a spot by the window, or join him on the bed, but if her terrible choice in seating was currently what he had most trouble figuring out about Elsa, then he figured he was probably in good shape. For better or worse, she'd rather taken to that chair.  
  
“You can prod me all you like, Jack,” Elsa quipped knowingly. She didn't even bother to take her eyes off her book. Jack frowned. “I will not be deterred. I am preparing for an exam.”  
  
“You had an exam _yesterday._ ”  
  
“Yes, and _tomorrow_ is history.”  
  
“Wouldn't yesterday be history?”  
  
“Jack.”  
  
“Elsa—just _one little break_. That's all I'm asking for.”  
  
Jack had actually spent the better part of the evening trying to convince her to leave the castle with him. Having an extended (forced) leave of absence with some of his regular patrols and fresh air had reminded him of just how stuffy those old castle walls had become, of just how desensitized he'd grown to the smell of wool and hearth. It was high time Elsa got some cold, thin air in her lungs.  
  
He just needed to find a way to persuade her.  
  
With a sigh that was equal parts determination and futility, Jack flopped back onto the bed to think. To brainstorm.  
  
He didn't get struck with any great ideas, and eventually, he just pretty much stopped thinking altogether.  
  
“Jack?” she called softly from across the room. He blinked, falling rapidly back to the present. Her voice sounded a lot farther away than it really was, like it took a few seconds for a cloud to dissipate around the sounds, until her voice was clear. “May I ask you a question?”  
  
“Really?” he laughed after a moment, incredulous and amused. “You're actually going to ask permission?”  
  
“It's personal,” she warned quietly, and he wasn't looking at her, but it sounded like an apology was already seeping through.  
  
Something ticked along the back of Jack's spine.  
  
He ignored it, throwing his easiest grin at her, shaking it off. “Is it about how much of an avid reader I've become?” He tapped his fingertips over his stomach, twisting his head all the way to the side, eyeing her careful expression. ( _So serious_ , nearly all the time; she needed to get out. He could _get_ her out.) Jack shrugged into the mattress and lightly added, “All thanks to your _gentle_ influence, of course.”  
  
“It's a matter of when you were human,” she amended cautiously, and Jack's whole mouth went dry. His fingers stilled.  
  
He suddenly hated the way she was looking at him.  
  
“Ah,” was all he managed, steady and thoughtless. Like her words hadn't quite settled in. He wouldn't let them.  
  
“I'm sorry,” she breathed, and the book in her lap snapped shut. She twisted herself in the chair, facing him, but he couldn't quite look at her, not anymore. His eyes found the underside of the canopy. “Jack—I'm sorry, that was—that was very insensitive of me. I'm so sorry, Jack.”  
  
“No, you, ah... you warned me,” Jack coughed, staring unseeingly at the fabric hangings above him. His shoulders had a crick that he hadn't been aware of before. He should probably sit up. Move off the bed. “What is it?”  
  
But Elsa hesitated.

(And Jack hated the little thought in his head, the one that sniped, _perhaps rightfully so_.)

Just when he thought she'd given up— _just as he looked over, prepared to brush off another wave of apologies_ —just when Jack was starting to feel embarrassed by the force of his reaction, the bed shifted beneath him, and on came the familiar weight of a young Princess along the edge. Her legs curled beneath her, under her skirts. The flats of her slippers hung off the side, over the tips of her toes. It was all painfully familiar.  
  
“I won't ask unless you're certain that you're ready to hear it,” she assured him quietly, strained and pleading. “And not unless you promise me that you are in no way obligated to answer it.”  
  
Jack's eyes slanted toward hers, confused. “Obligated?” He couldn't really see from this angle, but he sensed it, when Elsa's hands folded themselves in her lap.  
  
“I don't know what's expected of Guardians,” she admittedly quietly. “I want to be sure.”  
  
Jack blinked, floored by the notion. “No,” he replied, dazed. “I'm not... obligated, to answer, or anything.”

( _He wasn't._  
 _Was he?_ )

His uncertainty painted itself clearly across Elsa's face. “Forgive me,” she smiled tightly, raising and lowering her narrow shoulders in a soft sigh. “Please forget that I mentioned it.”  
  
“Wait,” Jack urged, tossing a hand to the small ones pressed tightly over her thigh as she rose to stand. He guided her back down into the yield of the mattress, breathed deep as she settled in beside him. Didn't take back his hand.  
  
Jack steeled his expression into the best impression of earnestness that he could muster, and stated clearly, “I want to hear it.”  
  
Elsa did not look like she believed him, but she didn't try to leave again.  
  
Eventually, Jack removed his hand.  
  
She took a moment to collect her thoughts, and Jack waited patiently all the while, tense and stiff as a board on a spread of blankets stuffed with feathery down. She didn't fiddle with her hands as she contemplated, but she didn't really look at him, either. Jack made it a point to watch her profile carefully.

  
( _They didn't talk about these differences—that she was mortal, and he was not._  
 _That he had died once, and come back again._  
  
 _It was something he liked to pretend wasn't a thing._  
  
 _Yeah, she was getting older, and he hadn't so much as aged a day, but so far—that was fine._  
 _They didn't talk about it, and wasn't Bunny always saying something about living in the present, all the time, anyway?_  
  
 _So that's what he did._ )

  
“When you were human,” Elsa began slowly, as if each word was carefully picked from a wide ocean of possibilities. ( _It probably was_.) “What... what were you like?”  
  
Jack actually grimaced. “That's... kind of difficult. It's not very specific.”  
  
“I suppose I... I just don't want you to feel compelled to be any more specific than you'd like to be,” she explained quietly.  
  
On the one hand, he appreciated the courtesy; on the other, it was making this conversation a lot longer—a lot harder—than he thought it had to be. “How about you ask really specific questions, and I'll just choose how to answer?”  
  
She bit her lip, thoughtful. “All right,” she said at last. “That seems fair.”  
  
He was gonna have to pretend like it was, at least.  
  
“What did you look like?”  
  
In spite of himself, Jack cocked a curious brow. “Really?” he smirked. “A thousand questions about my humanity, and that's what you want to know? How handsome I was?”  
  
And just like that, the tension began to evaporate. Elsa peered down at him with a sullen glare, a magnificent twist of her thinned-out lips, and he thought that she had half a mind to smack him. “I only ask because of what I told you a few months ago,” she defended evenly, and what do you know—she _did_ smack him, lightly, across the shoulder. He looked up at her, smug, for too many reasons. “That in my dreams when I am born without magic, my hair is no longer white.”  
  
Jack considered that. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he could feel his face tightening into that _scrunched-up scowl_ that Tooth sometimes complained about, when he got lost in his own head.  
  
“I... It's not like we had mirrors, where I came from,” Jack explained, and pushed down the sudden, inexplicable urge to go on the defensive. “I only knew what I looked like from my reflection in the pond.” _Or the ice_ , he thought, but didn't say aloud.  
  
“Did you... always have blue eyes?” Elsa prompted, noting his pensive stare at nothing. She leaned closer, as if to get a better look, so he chanced a glance her way, then snapped his eyes back to the ceiling. Hm.  
  
“No,” he answered, licked his lips. “They were brown once.”  
  
He didn't mind Elsa sitting so close, or peering down at him. He even tried to keep still, and keep from blinking, so she could better imagine it, maybe, if that's what she was trying to do, but he didn't look back at her, and he couldn't really examine the reasons why. Jack thought she understood, though.  
  
“Was... your hair always this light?” she tried again, slightly more comfortable with her questioning now. Like it was a game, just like their many others.  
  
“No,” he replied immediately, couldn't hold back the laugh. “No. It was a lot darker, it... it was brown.”  
  
“Brown?” Elsa breathed, eyes glowing wide with curiosity, and his head tilted in her direction from the sudden weight of her hand pressing into the bed so close to his ear. Her entrancement over this was actually starting to be funny, instead of painful.  
  
“ _Oh_ , yeah,” Jack continued to laugh, caught in the memories. “Though my sister used to say it sometimes looked orange in the sunlight, the little bug.” _Shit._ He'd forgotten that.  
  
“Is Jack your real name?”  
  
“It's a nickname,” he responded more easily, rubbing at hair behind his ear. His hand was comfortable there, so when he finished, that's where he let it drop. “My mother named me Jackson.”  
  
He could actually _feel_ the air being sucked into her lungs, let alone hear it.  
  
“ _Jackson,”_ she breathed, almost reverently.  
  
What?  
  
Oh, no.  
  
“ _Oh, no—_ Elsa. No. _No_ .”  
  
“ _But_ —”  
  
“No! Forget I said anything. _Jack_ . Stick with Jack. Nobody called me Jackson—not even my mother.”  
  
“Have you ever been in love?”  
 _  
_Jack froze, completely against his will.

( _From hair, to names, to...?)_

  
His voice was flat and thick, and his eyes were narrowed, when he cocked his head to the side in the mattress, away from the hand so close to his ear, and cautiously demanded, “This isn't about Henrik-Sideburns, is it?”  
  
Elsa leaned away from him sharply, brow arching high. “I don't _recall_ mentioning Prince Henrik's name.”  
  
Jack's frown deepened. “You just did,” he pointed out, a bit sourly. His hands clasped themselves over his stomach, stiff.  
  
“After _you_ did,” she argued, and cut him off, before he could get out his next words, “I wasn't asking about Prince Henrik, who—by the way—would not be so amused by your tender nicknames. I believe I was asking about _you_?”  
  
“What if I don't want to answer?”  
  
Jack had said it mostly to be difficult, but he was surprised by the truth of it. (He didn't _know_ the answer. He didn't even want to consider it.) His potential for human romance hadn't exactly been a priority, when the world of innocence had been about to end and Pitch Black had been so close destroying everything Jack had quickly come to love.  
  
And so, for a long moment, he stayed quiet.  
  
Elsa looked at him, surprised.  
  
“Then you shouldn't,” Elsa replied earnestly, eyes wide. “And I should apologize.”  
  
Jack became aware of the heart pounding loudly in his chest. The weird, swirling sensation floating uncomfortably through his gut. His whole face scrunched with frustration. _Nyarrghhhhhh._ He lifted himself up sharply, just an inch or two, then slammed his back down onto the mattress, ramming Elsa's knee with his ribs, and it only occurred to him that he'd made that angry-gargoyle-sounding noise out loud when he saw the look of Elsa's alarm.  
  
“ _Nyargh_ ,” he repeated, with feeling.  
  
“Should I be concerned?” she breathed, eyes impossibly wide. (Alarm, still, and rapidly increasing.)  
  
 _Yes_.  
  
“No,” Jack groaned, slapping a hand to his face. He wiped it down, slow and dragging. “I'm just being difficult.”  
  
Rather diplomatically, she observed, “This appears to be a whole new level of difficult.”  
  
Well, yeah, that pretty much summed up his love life, actually.

( _Love_ after _life?_ )

  
He was scowling again.  
  
“Jack—I'm sorry. I'm being invasive. I'll stop asking all these terrible questions.”  
  
“I don't know,” he sighed, felt the shift in the air when they both realized that he'd spoken aloud. That he'd answered her. Slowly, he turned his face toward hers, gazed up at the awful concern in her features. The sadness in her eyes. “I don't remember.”  
  
Neither of them really knew what to say, after that.  
  
He was startled when the bed suddenly shifted, and he was left with the stark, inescapable absence of her. His gaze followed her incredulously as she glided to her feet and made her way back to her chair—shoulders rising up off the bed to better stare at her, to demand where she was going—until he noticed that she'd only gone to retrieve her book from the empty cushion. She was already spinning on her heels, closely examining the pages she'd crumpled in her earlier haste to apologize. Jack quickly settled himself back onto the covers as Elsa strode back toward the bed, as she curled her fingers around the bindings protectively. He was pointedly considering the underside of the canopy, again, when she paused at the edge and looked down at him.  
  
She said nothing as she climbed onto the bed—only the sounds of her slippers clattering to the rug—and settled into the mountain of pillows at the head. Her stockinged feet disappeared under the tent of her skirts, but Jack could still see her face over the rise of her knees, when he titled his head ever so slightly to the side. Her book was open in her lap again, though Jack couldn't really be sure whether she was actually reading.  
  
With a sigh, Jack relaxed his head back down onto the mattress. He loosened his fingers, let them splay out across the pocket of his hoodie. He let the muscles in his legs relax, let his bare feet fall freely to the mattress; the edge of one ankle fell against Elsa's hip. She gave no sign of it bothering her; only settled more firmly into the wall of pillows, spread her feet deeper into the mattress, continued to read.  
  
He didn't mind, and she didn't really seem to, either.

And this was a lot better than her staying in that chair.

. * * * .  
  
Even after a day or two, long after things had returned to normal,  
Jack didn't dare ask where all the questioning had come from.  
The last thing he wanted was to prompt another round  
( _before he'd managed to find the answers_ ).  
  
Likewise, he didn't ask what had prompted her curiosity in the first place.  
  
(He didn't really want to hear about Sideburns, one way or another.)  
  
. * * * .


	75. - memory lane -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/21/14_. Happy 75th chapter to meeee...... ;______________;
> 
>  
> 
> ~~how am i still going i don't even know~~

. * * * .  
 _  
\- memory lane -_

. * * * .

.

.

.

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.

.

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.

.

. * * * .  
  
“Tooth... I have a favor to ask.”  
  
. * * * .

She wouldn't let him see the way to the secret vault where the Guardians' Memories were kept—(“ _Too risky now, Jack. Not even North knows._ ”)—but the sight of the cave's formidable entrance was enough to stop Jack in his tracks. He didn't tell her what it was that he was looking for. Only that it was important.  
  
( _Walls of rock and stone, stalagmites and geodes, lots of other shiny things Jack didn't know how to name; an iron padlock, sealed with magic and opened with a key he never saw; a small cavern with humble shelves embedded in the rock, tiny golden cages of teeth and Memories, and five familiar faces painted into the golden-plated edges. There were more boxes, stowed higher and nearly out of sight, but Jack didn't recognize the faces, didn't know why their boxes were so much grander than the Guardians'._ )  
  
After, Jack breathed a deep sigh of relief, felt the weight of uncertainty lift just a tiny bit more from his shoulders.  
  
“I haven't seen your smile in along time,” she said softly. Jack turned to her, startled, but Toothiana only smiled at him, warm and sad. “I've missed it,” she whispered.  
  
Jack swallowed, uncomfortable. _Then why have you spent so much time avoiding me?_ He wanted to ask, but didn't. Instead he gave a shrug, noncommittal and nonchalant.   
  
“It's good to remember, every once in a while,” he answered vaguely, pressing his box of Memories back into Toothiana's hands. She took them carefully, slowly, and Jack shrugged again, feeling strangely awkward. Probably just the lingering effects of what he'd just witnessed, he figured, but it felt like more than that. For the first time, it occurred to him, that he and Tooth were alone in this small cave, standing close in the darkness, surrounded by only the gleaming light of Memories coming alive.  
  
“Thanks,” he added, then shifted back, slipping his hands into his pockets. His staff fell to the crook of his elbow, where its weight was familiar and comforting.  
  
Toothiana smiled, but he didn't miss it—the way her face fell when she turned from him and slipped his Memory Box back into place among the others on the shelf.  
  
The journey home was traveled in silence.

. * * * .  
  


Jack tried not to let himself be too shaken by the surge of awkwardness between him and Tooth. _  
  
_( _Dude. You just mentally traveled back in time to basically watch yourself make out with somebody_.  
  
 _Of course you were on edge, you dumbass._ )  
  
As it turned out, Jack's assumptions about his past studliness _had_ been rather on the mark; from what his Memories showed him, he'd spent an awful lot of time _looking_ , but not a whole lot of doing. (Except for the fishing family that just happened to passing through the village on its way to Maine the summer of his sixteenth year; a respectable fisherman with a decent wagon, and his friendly family, and his pretty daughter. They'd only stayed a week, and she'd kissed him goodbye, behind the shed and the stables, and he'd dreamt of her for months, afterwards. His first, and apparently only, kiss.)  
  
Jack thought that he could have maybe been in love with her. He'd probably never know.  
  
His trip down Memory Lane had been most informative, except for the the deluge of brand _new_ questions that it dredged up; his thoughts were all twisted up for at least a week after his visit to the vault and, out of a lack of anything better to do, Jack took it upon himself to stop by the Warren. Easter was over. Bunny would be glad to see him, surely.  
  
“Bloody _hell_ , haven't you ever heard of knocking _?”  
  
_ “On _what_? One of your statues?”  
  
“I don't got time for this, kid,” Bunnymund snapped, wordlessly directing two different herds of eggs with instructions that Jack didn't care to understand. “Go play board games or somethin' with North.”  
  
“Can't. He's already prepping the Naughty and Nice Lists.”  
  
Bunny's eyes bulged comically wide. Jack almost felt sorry for him.  
  
“Sweet sassafras— _why_ am I not surprised? Jolly bugger.”  
  
“So can I hang here with you, then?”  
  
The rabbit side-eyed him. “What's wrong with Arendelle?” Jack couldn't quite keep the surprise off his face.  
  
“Nothing,” he replied, confused. “Elsa just has a lot of exams this month, and she needs time to study.”  
  
“Not exactly your strong suit, eh?”  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Jack snapped, resisting the urge to chuck a pebble at his head. “I have three centuries worth of popping into school houses, all right? I've had _more_ than enough of my fair share of education.”  
  
“If you say so, mate.”  
  
“You're a real dick, you know that?”  
  
“And yet it's always my blasted Warren that you end up in,” Bunny pointed out crossly, barely sparing him a glance over his shoulder. The eggs looked like they were directing themselves now, and Bunnymund was merely overseeing. Good. More time to spend on Jack.  
  
“Hey. Do you think Tooth will find the storage space she needs for the new Memories?” Jack asked suddenly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I mean—do you know how it's coming along?”  
  
“Why didn't you ask her yourself?” Bunny squinted at him, squatting down to more closely inspect an orderly garden patch. It seemed to be filled mostly with carrots. “I heard you were just with her a few days ago.”  
  
Jack's jaw gaped open. “How the hell did you find that out?”  
  
“A little birdie told me,” Bunny snapped, then blinked. “A little fairy, actually. Not a bird. They hate it when people say that.” Another pause. “Don't tell them I said that.”  
  
“Oh, for—fucking frost—is that all any of you do? Talk about me behind my back?”  
  
“We all talk about each other, mate. That's what _family_ does. Besides, if we didn't say something, then nothing would ever get done, because you're too much of a pussy-willow to say anything, yourself.”  
  
“Too much of a _what?_ ”  
  
“And I keep my mouth shut when I bloody know it's time to, all right? I still haven't said squat about your thing with the Queen, so there's that.”  
  
Jack's mouth opened and closed, soundlessly.  
  
He felt like a frickin' fish.  
  
“You're only doing that because of some stupid bet,” Jack crossed his arms. “And anyway, it's not worth your time because I'm—I'm not even really sure how much I'm into the Queen anymore, anyway.” His fingers dug into his arms. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.  
  
“Really, mate? This again?” Bunny barely spared him a glance from his patch of garden. “Denial is not a good look for you. Never was.”  
  
Jack gaped at him. “I'm—it's not like that! I'm being serious! Things have been weird ever since the ball. It's like—it's like she's not even the same _person_ anymore, okay?”  
  
Bunny scoffed.  
  
Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Bunny cut him off with a hand. “Frost. We've been over this. I don't give two blips what you do, as long as your business doesn't mess with mine. All right?”  
  
Jack scowled. “Fine.” No point arguing with the Kangaroo, anyway. He watched as Bunny's hands worked the soil, weeding and plucking, but didn't offer to help.  
  
“So, what you really here for?” Bunny asked evenly, and his voice was so smooth with the breeze that Jack didn't realize at first that he'd spoken. “Boredom? A distraction, maybe? I heard you've been checkin' up on your Memories.”  
  
“So?” Jack demanded, still frustrated. He'd never bothered to uncross his arms. “They're mine, aren't they? I can visit them whenever I damn well please.”  
  
“That, you can,” Bunnymund agreed slyly, and Jack really didn't like the look in his eye, the way he was peering up at him from a few bundles of daisies. “Though I reckon you weren't all that clear with Toothiana about just what it was you were lookin' for.”  
  
“Who said I was looking for anything?”  
  
“Please, _Jack-O..._ if you're gonna insult me in my own home, at least be prepared to handle the consequences; those statues don't take to kindly to liars, y'know.”  
  
“I'm not a liar!”  
  
“You sure ain't a beacon of truth, either,” Bunnymund quipped, smirking at Jack's frown. “So, what gives? What kinds of answers you lookin' for?”  
  
Jack sighed, plopping down onto a soft-looking patch of grass.  
  
"Man... I could write a book.”  
  
It was sort of soothing to watch Bunny work. It was one of the reasons why Jack liked to come here so much. Not boisterous and bombastic like the inside of North's workshop, or hyperactive and swarming with movement at the Tooth Palace. (And Sandy always accidentally lured him into some sort of meditative state, _so_.) If he wanted to stay lucid, and crack a few jokes, and not get smacked with anything by an oversized yeti—somewhere he could think, and count on somebody to tell him like it was—then the Warren was the place to go.  
  
Not that he'd ever say that out loud.   
  
“Yeah, but would you actually read it, afterwards?”  
  
Jack Frost ended up chucking a pebble at him, after all.  
  
(He just hid it inside of a snowball, first.)

. * * * .  
  
“Asshole.”  
  
. * * * .


	76. - working independently -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/21/14_. This is actually gonna be the last one of the night! I'm tired. :P More tomorrow.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- working independently -_  
  
. * * * .

Jack's suspicions regarding the Queen were confirmed the very next week.  
  
It was a rare occasion when Jack actually went so far as to quiz Elsa on her subjects—she studied much more effectively while working independently, mainly due to his incessant attempts to distract her—and it _hadn't_ been one of those times where he'd been focused enough to be of any use; he _had_ been behaving though, for an impressively long time, and most of it was due to his growing mental list of bribes to get Elsa to go outside with him. And alternating between the window, the floor, and the bed—that helped, too. Jack had been in the midst of a particularly solid round of incentive-planning at the window when a knock came at the door.  
  
Elsa looked up from her desk, locked her eyes with Jack's.

( _Anna hadn't knocked_  
 _in months._ )  


“Who is it?” Elsa politely called, and shared Jack's curious brow. From the window seat, Jack merely shrugged.  
  
“Elsa, dear,” came the unmistakable voice of the Queen, and both of them stilled. “May I come in?”  
  
It took her a moment to answer.  
  
“Yes, Mother.”  
  
The Queen had only wanted to let Elsa know that she and the King would not be able to join them for lunch the next day, as they were expecting an emissary from Corona. She wanted to know if Elsa might like to take tea with her, instead. Elsa had looked at her mother— _so earnest and genuine_ —then back to the towers of books on her desk.

( _“No, thank you, Mother._  
 _I'm afraid I must really prepare for tomorrow's exam.”_ )

If the Queen had thought her answer strange—if she had remembered Elsa's continually perfect marks every term—then she said nothing. She accepted her daughter's polite refusal with all her natural grace, and carefully closed the door behind her on the way out.  
  
The room was silent, for a while.  
  
Elsa did not return to her studies.

. * * * .  


Jack spent the next few days trying to get to the bottom of it.  
  
After the emissary from Corona came and went, Elsa and her parents resumed their thrice-a-week mealtimes, though—now more than ever—Jack could see how different things had become; their interactions were more perfunctory than sentimental, and there was always an indescribable tension in the air, between the soft clinking of silverware over plates and gentle swallows and quiet chewing.  
  
 _It's like the ambassadors never left_ , Jack realized, staring at the ramrod-straight postures, the blank expressions, the meaningful, furtive glances when anyone thought nobody was looking.  
  
It was maddening.  
  
Between the recent trip to Toothiana's Memory Vault and the stiff-and-strained lunch engagements of the castle, it was no surprise, then, when Jack's thoughts continually drifted back to his own mother. ( _Always heartfelt, whether it was a brush of fingers through the hair or a sharp shoe to the head._ ) He'd always been shaking off her concern, trying to ease the air—(“ _Jack, Farmer Smith was expecting you at two o'clock. Where were you?_ ”)—trying to make her laugh, or smile, or forget about the oncoming winter. ( _“Jackson Overland—get down from that tree this instant, you—oh, for goodness' sake. Well. At least pick a few apples while you're up there, you strange boy._ ”) They both knew that he was responsible—that she could rely on him, that they could _depend_ on him—but it was easier, sometimes, to pretend otherwise.

(“ _Jack, I know you want your sister to be able to do it on her own, but... it's okay to help her, you know that?_  
 _You're not going easy on her. You spoil her enough as it is, believe me._  
 _But you don't have to worry—she's a tough little kid._  
 _I wonder where she gets it from... Oh, that's right._  
 _Me.”_ )

Anna, on the other hand, was a completely different story.  
  
Breakfasts and dinnertimes, almost every single day. _Loud, smiling, chatterbox Anna_ —her conversations were warmth and excitement, scattered sentences and pointed exclamations. She was unrestrained and passionate on nearly every interesting topic that came her way, opinionated and eager to learn. She was generous with her hugs, and even more so with her laughter, and Jack found himself breathing easy in the dining room when she was speaking. It was the only time he saw the Queen smile, anymore. The King smiled, too, if not with his mouth, then with his eyes.  
  
Laughter from royal ladies could be heard from all the way down the hall, their giggles seeping out from underneath Anna's bedroom door. Once, out of curiosity, he joined them—hiding in the banisters, invisible, though he'd sworn _never again—_ and found himself laughing right along with them, at the ridiculousness of their silly chatter and easy banter.

( _There was no guarantee that Anna would or wouldn't see him, should he choose to show himself._  
 _She was thirteen now. Could go either way._  
  
 _She still spoke of him often, and his book sat comfortably on the shelf closest to her bed,_  
 _but Jack had learned the hard way that such things didn't always mean Believing._ )

He didn't care much for the town gossip or the talk of royal court, fashion and romance—(“ _Wow, so Rapunzel's hair will_ never _grow back?”_ )—but it was easy to get lost in their happiness, for a while.  
  
Elsa's room was always so quiet, in comparison.

. * * * .  
  
The Queen was very beautiful,   
that much hadn't changed.  
  
But the fact of the matter was that something _had_ changed.  
It had.  
  
. * * * .


	77. - they danced -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/22/14_. Almost done with the Alpha set from LiveJournal's [1sentence challenge](http://1sentenceorder.livejournal.com/1531.html). They're so fun. I may end up putting in another one. :P
> 
> I'm on (home) vacation until Thursday, so I'm hoping to get a good chunk of this story completed in the next day or so! Feel free to send some love my way through comments, if you're feeling generous. ;) <3 <3
> 
> also, [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)!
> 
>  
> 
> ~~also, also: that number has changed from 100 to 120. it's inadvertently become more of a psychological device for my motivation rather than any sort of concrete gauge as to the real length of this story. i don't want to talk about it. ;__________;~~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- they danced -_  
  
. * * * .

.  
  
 _._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * .  
  
. _May_ .  
  
. * * * .

 **#31 – Home**  
When she asked him if he'd yet decided, Jack merely laughed, and mumbled something crazy and noncommittal, a clear evasive tactic cleverly disguised by some poetic nonsense or other, something along the lines of, “Elsa, _please_ —I am one with the wind and sky.”  
 **  
#32 – Confusion**  
“What does _shoe_ size have to do with anything?”  
  
 **#33 – Fear**  
The day Elsa dragged her eyes up from North's journal, curious and intrigued; “ _Who is the Nightmare King?_ ” she'd asked, and Jack remembered what it was to lie.

 **#34 – Lightning/Thunder**  
( _And for reasons Jack couldn't really explain, he didn't tell anybody when he flew over the Atlantic that night in the midst of a hurricane, and stayed._ )

 **#35 – Bonds**  
Anna sometimes talked to Jack Frost as if he were there to hear her, so it was by pure luck that, most of the time, he was; through a rather interesting monologue, Jack learned one morning that Anna often dreamed about the blonde-white of her hair coming to light by the kiss of trolls; “ _Nice_ , Sandy—real original,” Jack muttered some days later, but Sandy merely shrugged and grinned his puffy cheeks.

 **#36 – Market  
** It was a particularly hot afternoon on the fateful day when he discovered her— _truly,_ the most gorgeous woman Jack had ever seen, stunningly beautiful in the same way that Michigan Girl— _California_ Girl—had been, if not more so; he accidentally ran into a shopkeeper's sign twice while trying to get a better look at her, although it admittedly may have been more—Jack couldn't quite remember, not after the second bump to the head—and it wasn't until she smiled that he saw just how much older she looked— _so much older than he did_ —and Jack had to sit himself upon the roof as she passed out of sight, catch his breath, and pick back up the pieces of his ( _seventeen-year-old_ ) heart.

 **#37 – Technology**  
“My furry friend, you have only been on sleigh ONCE—that is a crime!—A CRIME!—we change it, _now_!”

 **#38 – Gift  
** Jack Frost blew a fresh cold front into the depths of the mountains with a smirk, and Kristoff— _broad-shouldered, thickly-muscled and tall, even for fifteen_ —nearly wept.

 **#39 – Smile**  
Elsa joked about things ( _she smiled_ ) when she was afraid, and like most of her few bad habits, she learned this from Jack; he couldn't tell if it had worsened her sense of humor, or improved it (“ _I'm afraid of a great deal, you know_ ”).  
  
 **#40 – Innocence**  
And, every so often—they danced.

. * * * .

 


	78. - lucky one -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/22/14_. Rina, I'm still so mad at you for the existence of this story.
> 
> For anyone who didn’t realize when they started reading _at the center_ that it was going to become a mammoth (97,000+ words) fic that thoroughly explored all the possible, intricate details of Elsa’s coming of age with Jack Frost’s influence as her Guardian, including her ever-changing relationships with her sister, her parents, and her kingdom, as well as Jack’s steadily-developing commitment and dynamics with the other Guardians—
> 
> I sincerely apologize.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~THIS IS PROBABLY A LOT MORE THAN YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE SIGNING UP FOR. D:~~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- lucky one -_  
  
. * * * .

For weeks, Jack wondered if he'd done the right thing.  
  
 _His name is Pitch_.  
  
The words had been on the tip of his tongue. So close to the front, ready to jump off at the barest inclination. ( _His name is Pitch_.) Elsa was sixteen now and fully capable of handling the truth; she'd been enduring some of the world's most lamentable shortcomings for years.  
  
So why had he ended up brushing over it?  
  
A mere _metaphor_ , he'd told her, as if that could have begun to capture the depths of darkness, the danger, the seductive thrill of power, the once-Man who was now nothing more than Fear itself.  
  
A creature who had buried himself under his own wave of terror, deep within the ground.  
  
 _Should_ he have told her? ( _Should he tell her now?_ ) It didn't seem right to tell her this part of the story. (Sandy _died_ , even if only for a night, and Tooth's wings had begun to crack with strain, and North could hardly stand to walk without a sword, and _Bunny—_ ) Elsa had enough to worry about as it was, and he didn't want her to have to picture any of this in her mind, to mar the strength and mystery they held for her—to think that something like this could happen to _him—_ and yeah, it went against how they functioned the rest of the time, openly and honestly, but Pitch was _gone_ now, and it took him _decades_ to resurface the last time, and _who are you trying to fool, Jack Frost?_

 _(You just don't want her to see_  
 _how close you came to joining him_.)

 _It's for her protection_ , Jack argued to himself, sitting on the grassy bank of Bunnymund's creek, and tried not to acknowledge just much the icy voice in his head had sounded like the King's.  
  
He felt sick, suddenly.  
  
Amidst the floating butterflies and frolicking eggs, Jack sat along the stream and watched the picnic unfold around him with a growing sense of unease. The light was brilliant and soft in the grassy plain of Bunnymund's Warren, and the flora was in full bloom; with this year's Easter done and out of the way, a much deserved moment of respite was finally bestowed upon his home. (Bunny was rather generous with his rewards, if not a little late, and _Hey, Cotton Tail—aren't rabbits supposed to be_ fast _?_ ) The rock creatures were playing a game that involved a lot of loud collisions; one that sounded fun—and more than a little dangerous—but Jack couldn't bring himself to pay attention to how it worked.  
  
The other Guardians were not too far off behind him. Sandy and North were enjoying another round of sand-badminton, mostly because North had yet to realize that Sandy kept altering his sand-racket just before he swung, and Bunnymund was lounging—quietly, for once—in the warmth of the light. Toothiana was flitting back and forth between cheerleader and referee, and was actively trying to hide the fact that she was still, technically, working. (“Oh! San Francisco! Fourth central incisor—upper row! Go girls, go!”) The elves were sprawled out over the grass, bellies comically full. They'd eaten all the cookies. Surprise.  
  
The Guardians were doing something they rarely got to do. They were enjoying another job well done, another year of safety and happiness.  
  
Jack felt like he might throw up.  
  
And he almost did, so startled was he by Toothiana's sudden appearance next to him, the jarring way she gracefully seated herself next to him on the grass.  
  
“You're awfully quiet,” she teased lightly, smirking at the way he'd jumped. “It's not like you to sit back and _watch_ a competition.”  
  
Jack Frost side-eyed Sandy knowingly, but said nothing. Sandy whistled innocently. It was a lot funnier than it should have been, given that his whistling made no sound.  
  
“Yeah,” Jack drawled vaguely, trying to catch his grin. “Sand's not really my thing.”  
  
He flashed a warning smirk at Sandy's offended pout. _Hey, buddy—I just did you a solid. Show a little appreciation, yeah?_ And then he was laughing, in spite of himself.  
  
“Ten bars of Bunny's chocolate says that Sandy wins,” Toothiana nudged Jack with an elbow, smiling deviously for show. “I trust each of us will brush and floss accordingly, of course,” she added, over the low hum of Bunnymund's outraged protests. And North's.  
  
“No, thanks. I've had my fair share of bets recently,” Jack remarked, chancing a sly glare at Bunny. The Easter Bunny quieted immediately.  
  
“You have no faith in the strength of Santa Claus?” North demanded, striding forward. He flashed a tattooed arm, just briefly, in Jack's line of sight, and Jack nearly fell over from laughing. North looked less than amused. “Christmas is not too far away, Jack Frost—this shall not be forgotten!”  
  
“That's all right. Elsa always shares her chocolates, anyway,” Jack quipped, earning an impatient huff from North and a loud, deeply satisfied chuckle from Bunny. Sandy just shook his head, smile wide with amusement, before he turned back to North to instigate another loud round of (not entirely fair) badminton.  
  
“Still spend Christmases in Arendelle?”  
  
Jack turned back to Toothiana, heart thumping in his chest.  
  
His eyebrows wouldn't seem to cooperate with the whole _casual_ look he was aiming for, but once his mouth finally learned how to close itself up again, the rest of his face seemed to follow suit. The shrug might have been a little much, but it was too late to turn back now, so.  
  
 _Please don't bring up the Queen_ , he begged. _Please don't bring up the Queen_. He'd gotten much better at compartmentalizing the image of her face in an imaginary box labelled _Elsa's Mother, DO NOT LOOK_ , and since the ball fiasco, it'd become a lot easier. ( _Sort of like a dream shattering. Or actually getting too close to a mirage, instead of it continually moving away, to the point where everything fell apart._ ) His mind really only wandered in that direction every so often, these days. Usually in the most inconvenient of circumstances.  
  
Like now.  
  
“Y'know,” Jack slipped in, ignoring the uneasy sensation once again worming its way into his gut. ( _Pitch_. _Elsa. The Queen. Tooth_. This was just not his day.) “I like it there. And there's always a stocking with my name on it. So.”  
  
Jack watched the water in the creek. It was awfully calming, and it even had a few minnows in it. It was nice to be able to just appreciate something for once, without having to wonder where it came from. (Wait a minute. Where _did_ it come from?) _Dammit_.  
  
“Arendelle has become so beautiful... It's very lucky to have you as a special Guardian,” Tooth told him, quiet and thoughtful. He kept his eyes on the creek, because it was easier. The other Guardians were distracted by their own leisure again, and that strange, prickly feeling was resurfacing, just like he'd felt inside the vault.  
  
Jack cleared his throat, trying to be quiet, and not really succeeding. “Figure I'm the lucky one,” he admitted softly, suddenly incapable of anything louder than a mumble.  
  
 _Tell her now_ , his brain fired. _Tell her, you jackass. Apologize._  
  
“Elsa's become very beautiful, too,” Toothiana added.  
  
Jack jerked a shrug, jam-packed and jittery with nerves. “She's always been beautiful,” he acknowledged absently, hoping Tooth wouldn't try to throw in any comments about her sharing her mother's genes, or something equally embarrassing.

( _But then again..._  
 _He sort of wished she would._  
  
 _It might be nice, to have things be like they used to be, once upon a time._  
  
 _It didn't feel right to see Toothiana teasing the others so much,  
_ _not unless she was teasing him, too._ )

Taking some sort of cue, Toothiana sagely let it drop.

“Tooth...” Jack started quietly, while the others bickered loudly in the background. (He should wait until there was some place more private they could go, but if he didn't say this now, then who knew when he might find the nerve again? And he was wary, too, of being alone with her; the awkwardness from his trip to the Memory Vault hadn't quite dissipated, and he didn't know how to make it go away.) “There's... something I've been wanting to say to you.” Her eyes grew very wide.  
  
He'd almost forgotten the color of them.  
  
A deep rift settled through him, hollow and wide. ( _To think that, for so long, this color had been the first thing he'd turn to when he was feeling lost_.)  
  
How, over time, it'd taken so much more for her to simply look his way.  
  
“Yes?” she asked gently, that same soft patience that he'd known—that he _knew_ —so well. But Jack could see the tremor behind the courage now, the uncertainty behind the amethyst. Had something changed? Or had it always been there—and he'd just never been able to see it?  
  
( _Had never bothered to look?_ )  
  
“I'm sorry,” he said suddenly, quietly. “I'm sorry it took me so long to say this. That I've been such a... I don't know. A jerk. A brat. I'm sorry that you had to put up with all of my shit, and I barely ever did a thing to give back. I just—I really look up to you, you know? I don't know how I could have done any of this without you.” He took a breath to launch forward, but was suddenly without a thing to say. His mind had gone blank.  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” Toothiana whispered, barely a sound, eyes squinting and roving over his face. “Jack, you don't have to—”  
  
“No, wait—I just—I really appreciate what you've done for me, okay? And I'm sorry for whatever it is that I did to make you distance yourself from me.”  
  
“Jack, that's... that's not why I—”  
  
Tooth stopped speaking at the precise instant that Jack stopped listening.  
  
They were equally mortified to realize that the other Guardians had been paying less and less attention to their business, and more and more to _theirs_. Sandy, at least, had the decency to look contrite. (The others tried, to varying degrees of success.) Jack _glared._  
  
“ _Oh!_ ”  
  
His eyes snapped to Toothiana, who was clutching tightly at her chest. Alarmed, Jack forgot about the nosy Guardians and turned more fully to Toothiana, who was already waving him off.  
  
“Excuse me,” Toothiana said breathlessly, with a tiny laugh. “A little girl in Jacksonville just lost her tooth!”  
  
“Um. Okay,” Jack said thoughtlessly, eyeing her warily. This felt like a stupid question, but, “I mean, isn't... doesn't that happen all the time?”  
  
“No, I mean she _lost_ it!” Toothiana quietly cried, and North stepped forward, all seriousness. Even Bunny sat up. “ _Ohhh_ —she's so worried that I won't know! She has nothing to put under the pillow, and—excuse me, Jack, but—I really must—this requires a little extra care, you know, and—I'm so sorry,” she finished breathlessly, and then she was floating before him.  
  
“You need anything?” Bunny called from his spot in the grass, looking appropriately concerned.  
  
“No, no— _come on, ladies!_ Just a little house call, that's all,” she assured them, offering a tight smile to cover her nerves. Jack could see it in the twitching of her wings. “Besides, I like the excuse to see the children, ideal circumstances or no!” She was rambling now, like she normally did when she was excited or nervous. Or both.  
  
“If you're sure?” Jack insisted doubtfully, staring up at her meaningfully from under his brow. He didn't stand from his seat on the grass. He wasn't entirely convinced he wouldn't fly off with her, and this didn't really seem like the best time to finish their... conversation. ( _Goddamn.)_  
  
“We'll.... we'll talk later, okay?”  
  
It took Jack a moment to realize that Tooth was speaking to him. “Okay,” he echoed, swallowing down his discomfort.  
  
 _Shit_.

Toothiana was off not a moment later, a fleet of fairies right on her heels. She was in a hurry to help console the little girl, definitely, because she even accepted a trip through North's snowball portal. (How many times had he heard, _“No, thank you—I prefer to fly the old-fashioned way!”_ )  
  
The last time he'd seen Toothiana choose magical transportation over the long way home, he'd been right behind her, on North's sleigh for the very first time. It'd been urgent. It'd been...

( _Pitch._ )

 _Stop overreacting!_ his mind hissed. _Pitch is_ gone. _You're just being oversensitive to everything because Elsa asked about him. He's gone. And one day he_ will _be back, because that's what he does._  
  
 _But not today._  
  
“Over five hundred years, and she still nearly blows a gasket over one lil' chopper,” Bunny shook his head fondly. He settled back onto the grass with a contented sigh, practically nuzzling the greenery. (Jack vaguely stored that away for later, as potential ammunition.) “Looks like your little heart-to-heart is gonna have to wait, lover boy.”  
  
Jack's furious glare found its way to a self-satisfied rabbit, but Bunny's eyes were already blissfully closed. North was laughing far more boisterously than Jack thought he had any right to, and Sandy was trying to hide the fact that he was chuckling, and not very well, he might add.

( _He was overreacting, about Pitch._  
 _And probably about Tooth, too, now that he thought about it._  
  
 _One day, he'd tell Elsa the whole story,_  
 _Fear and Darkness and Names and all._  
  
 _But it wouldn't hurt, Jack decided,_  
 _as he took in the sunshine, the peace and happiness of the Warren,_  
 _to go one more year without any mention of Pitch Black._  
  
 _After all. Jack knew, probably more than most,  
_ _the power of calling something by name._ )

And Jack had bigger problems to deal with.  
  
“Bunnymund caved first about my crush on the Queen,” Jack smirked broadly, eyeing a rapidly blinking North.  
  
As North leapt with victory, and Sandy jumped back in alarm, and Bunnymund snarled, “ _Son of a—_ ”  
  
Jack decided that being banned from the Warren for a few months was totally worth it.

 _. * * * ._  
  
(That fermented eggnogg had been sitting in North's workshop for _quite_ a while.)  
  
. * * * .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
It didn't quite hit Jack until much later,  
that Bunnymund had called him _lover boy_.  
  
It took half as long for him to figure out the implications.  
  
It took no time at all, after that, to decide that perhaps  
things were maybe just a bit more complicated than he'd  
realized.  
  
. * * * .


	79. - to corona -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/22/14_. Last one for the day! Maybe only one or two more for the rest of the week, too. :P Vacation ends tomorrow and the following couple of days are going to be pretty packed. (Work, work, work--5k!) Wish me luck.  <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _to corona_ -  
  
. * * * .  
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.  
  
. * * * .  
  
. _June_.  
  
. * * * .

“Are you all right, Jack?” Elsa laughed. “You seem awfully preoccupied today.”  
  
Jack pushed his unease aside, long enough for him to send her a mild glare. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” he demanded, feigning offense.  
  
“Princesses do not _joke._ You should know that by now.”  
  
He half-heartedly tossed a pillow at her; even if his toss _hadn't_ been so weak, she would have caught it just as easily. (Elsa magnanimously chose not to call him out on it.)  
  
Jack was lounging on the bed, his staff somewhere off to the side against the wall. He felt awfully twitchy for someone who did such a fine job of looking so lazy, so he tried to lay still as he watched her from across the room. Today was a today of practicing control, rather than creation; she'd taken off her gloves mid-morning, as per usual, and left them on the desk, should anyone deign to knock, and had been going about her business as if nothing was amiss. They'd only just started defining concrete strategies for her to use in times of trouble, one of which regrettably included her father's favored sayings, but it was a start, and Elsa was happy, so that made Jack pretty happy, too. She must have been feeling especially confident today, though, because an hour or so ago, she'd hung her thick, woolen jacket over the back of her fine, wooden desk chair. She hadn't touched it since.  
  
And to think that wearing a long-sleeved dress in the middle of June like this would be considered dressing _light_.  
  
“Penny for your thoughts?” Elsa whispered through a smile, when she realized that he'd been staring. Jack hadn't quite realized it either, even after she'd turned around and stared right back. Jack cracked a smile, even if that was how it felt.  
  
Cracked.  
  
“I think you're gonna need a lot more pennies,” Jack replied smartly, and withheld a sigh.  
  
“Name your price,” Elsa challenged, a true businesswoman in her own right. “North owes me, anyway.”  
  
Jack's musings were cut short by something very close to terror.  
  
“ _What_?” Jack demanded, rising up onto his elbows. His heels dug into the mattress instinctively.  
  
“For a man who loves to bet, he certainly doesn't win them very often,” Elsa smiled. “At least, not when it's about you.”  
  
Actually, Jack could think of at least one bet North had recently won that concerned—  
  
“What in the _hell_ are you betting on?”  
  
“Oh... A number of things,” she answered vaguely, and Jack might have been able to handle it, really, had the smirk on her face not looked so damn familiar. _You've created a monster, you fool!  
  
“_ I thought Princesses didn't _gamble!_ _”_  
  
“They do if it's worth the risk,” she replied, awfully cheeky.  
  
Jack scowled. “When has _this_ been happening?” he demanded sourly.  
  
“He usually stops in to visit once a season. Sometimes by sleigh, by snow globe, others. He knocks first,” she added pointedly. “My reason for sharing this, of course,” she went on, rolling right over his protests, “Is to remind you that your sly humor is not enough to evade the question. And also to take your mind off whatever it is that has you looking so tired,” she added kindly, though Jack got the feeling it was mostly to soften the blow. His lips twisted ironically, caught behind a well-deserved _touch_ _é_ _.  
  
_ _“_ All right,” he sighed, conceding defeat, dropping his head to the mattress. “Give me a minute.”  
  
This wasn't exactly optimal sharing material.  
  
And to be honest—  
  
Jack still wasn't entirely sure if he actually believed it, himself.  
  
Try as he might (and he _did_ , for nearly two whole days), Jack couldn't really believe why anybody would want... well.  
  
Him.  
  
When he was alive, sure, maybe, because he was quick on his feet— _though apparently not enough—_ and relatively good-looking, he had that much— _tall, gangly limbs notwithstanding—_ and he was good with his little sister and provided for his family, so. Yeah. Jack guessed he could see it. (The fisherman's daughter had, anyway.)  
  
But... now?

( _Why would_ anybody  
 _be interested_  
 _in_ him?)

  
 _Tooth?_ Well. She'd been at the Guardian stuff for a few more centuries than he had, so yeah, Jack figured she was probably just as damn tired of being lonely as he was. And the shared immortality thing, too, he supposed... ( _But still, that didn't mean—_ ) And yeah, Tooth was always sticking her fingers in his mouth, but Tooth did that to _anybody_ who flossed regularly. He thought it'd just been about the teeth. ( _With Toothiana, it usually was!_ ) Not really. But.  
  
 _Ugh._  
  
What was he supposed to do? Confront this? Let her down easy—whatever the _fuck_ that meant? ( _Be honest?_ ) They had to work together for the next eternity! How were they supposed to navigate _that?_ Jack didn't approve of feeding large elephants in any room, but _this_. This was so far out of his league. He'd have asked Bunny for advice, but the kangaroo wasn't really pleased with him at the moment and _goddammit, Frost, do you have to burn_ all _your bridges?  
  
_ Plus, Bunny didn't even seem to realize what he'd said. He probably didn't think that _Jack_ , of all Guardians, was thinking too deeply into anything that he'd said, let alone something that he didn't really _think_ about having said in the first place. And would Bunny really have meant that, anyway? He'd told him straight-up that he didn't go around betraying friends' confidences, but if it'd been an _accident_ , and he didn't even _realize—_ or maybe he'd have thought that Jack was too dense to figure it out himself, even if he'd said something? (Jack wouldn't have put it past him, _the condescending asshole_.) And he'd already made it no secret that they all talked about each other when they weren't around, because they cared about each other or some bullshit, and that if they _didn't_ , then Jack would never get anything done by himself and—  
  
This was precisely why having anyone having any interest in Jack Frost should have been impossible.  
  
“Jack?”  
  
And now he felt fucking awful about hoping for an Earth Day Garden Nymph.  
  
 _Ughhhh_.  
  
“Um— _Jack_?”  
  
“How do the royal people in your world figure out if a match is compatible or not?” Jack asked suddenly, before the question had even had time to settle in his mind. His jaw snapped shut, loudly.  
  
He wasn't brave enough to face her full-on, so he compromised by twisting his head, marginally. And squinting at her. She looked torn between bafflement and amusement.  
  
“A romantic match, I presume?” she asked, and Jack got the distinct impression that she was teasing him. Great.  
  
“Yeah,” Jack replied flatly. “That.”  
  
Her laughter at his expense became clear when she settled her books off to the side and abandoned her chair at the desk. Shame came steadily flooding in with the sound of the chair legs scraping against the hardwood, so he laid his head back down upon the covers and proceeded valiantly with an attempt to melt into the mattress. The weight of her on the bed near his feet was not unsettling, figuratively or literally, but that didn't really make her teasing smirk any easier to bear.  
  
“I suppose it concerns a great many factors,” Elsa began, obviously warming to the subject. “A friendship or partnership of both families is ideal, of course, but it would do to have at least some common ground. Matchmakers often look for qualities in individuals that would help create an overall well-rounded character, such as patience and a respectable disposition, but also a sustainability between the match. For example, do the two individuals share the same core values? Do they share common interests? I would wonder if any two individuals seeking an engagement are able to relate to one another, genuinely and authentically, but still maintain interesting differences that would keep their companionship from complacency. We are fortunate that we live in a time where marriage proposals have room to account for love and attraction, but there is much more to consider as well, the responsibility we have to leadership, and to our people.”  
  
Jack's lips turned downward. He was far more interested in her explanation than he thought he'd be. “Like what?” he asked curiously.  
  
“Well, like social class, I suppose,” Elsa said thoughtfully, eyes alight with consideration. “We are not so barbaric as to prohibit marriages between them, if the love proves worthwhile, but it wouldn't be entirely truthful to say that they are no longer... frowned upon. Take Princess Rapunzel of Corona, for example.”  
  
Jack's heart skipped in his chest. Elsa didn't seem to notice.  
  
Licking his dry lips, Jack peered up at her and asked, “What about her?”  
  
“It's almost been a whole year since Princess Rapunzel returned, no? In the political world, the loss of Rapunzel was an insurmountable tragedy.”  
  
“It's a tragedy no matter _what_ world it's in!” Jack argued, rising up onto his elbows. Elsa fixed him with a flat, dry stare.  
  
“ _I_ know that,” she replied crisply, sighing a huff, somehow offended by his offense. “But you asked me a question from a very particular perspective and I'm _explaining_ it from that perspective.”  
  
Jack's tetchiness didn't really go away, but he didn't call out again, either.  
  
“Yes, and anyway, she's returned, for which _we are quite grateful_ , thank you. The point that I am _trying_ to make is that, when Rapunzel was stolen away, the world lost more than just a beloved Princess... they lost an opportunity for a _union._ The Queen of Corona had almost died giving birth to Rapunzel, and under no circumstances was the King willing to risk his beloved _again_. Corona was left without an heir.  
  
“And, you know... It isn't discussed in great detail—not in my presence, anyway—but it hasn't escaped my notice that _anyone_ could have taken advantage of their grief. Any worthy adversary could have stormed the kingdom and taken the throne.”  
  
Jack stared at her, elbows digging in. He'd never even considered it.  
  
“We are lucky to have managed peace for so long,” Elsa added quietly, voice even and eyes distant. “In different times, it may have ended far differently. But as it stands, the people of this realm were willing to wait... and look how they have been rewarded. Rapunzel has returned, safe and sound, if not thoroughly shaken. It is in many ways a miracle.”  
  
 _Magic_ , Jack's mind whispered. He swallowed it down, harshly.  
  
“But in the political world, many people are upset that Rapunzel already seems to be matched. To have regained another eligible Princess from another strong kingdom... only to learn that in her absence, she has found herself a thief.”  
  
Jack's jaw _dropped_.  
  
“Elsa!”  
  
“What?” she quipped, unfazed. “Just because it's not my perspective doesn't mean that such coldness doesn't exist; there are far crueler words being used to describe the disappointment, I assure you.”  
  
Jack could hardly believe his ears. He wondered what Bunny thought of this. If he knew.  
  
“Yeah, but...”  
  
Jack paused, momentarily drawn into himself by something she'd said. He turned his gaze up to her, thoughtful and contemplative, and she stared back down at him, expression strangely blank.  
  
The staring continued.  
  
“Yes?” Elsa asked, when it seemed that she'd finally grown uncomfortable with the silence. He hadn't done it on purpose, or anything. He was just trying to wrap his head around something. Put together his thoughts.  
  
“What's your perspective?” he asked finally, when he realized what it was that he wanted to know most. Elsa's gaze shifted over the headboard, careful as ever.  
  
“I would very much like to meet Rapunzel one day,” Elsa admitted quietly. “My... mother and father have been very close to Corona for years. It had been very hard on both of them—both families—when Rapunzel was taken away... and when Arendelle celebrated the joyous birth of a healthy little girl, just a mere few years later.”  
  
The way she laughed at that.

( _Could a stranger have known, from that laughter,_  
 _that Elsa was speaking about herself?_ )

“How difficult it must have been,” Elsa mused, “For Corona to celebrate with Arendelle, when they were still raw with grief? And how trapped my own parents must have felt, to have no others to turn to, when they discovered...” Elsa swallowed, roughly cleared her throat. Jack was up in an instant, but Elsa paid him no mind. “But at least they had me,” she insisted, a mere whisper. “Corona had only but a few precious memories... and lanterns, once a year.  
  
“And then Anna,” Elsa sighed, heavy with exhaustion. “Thank goodness for Anna,” she laughed, brittle and broken.  
  
“Hey,” Jack whispered, commanding her attention. She glanced up at him—their usual stance, the familiar _knee-to-knee—_ but looked down, quickly, at her lap instead. Jack was _not_ pleased. “ _Hey_ ,” he insisted, forcing her to look up at him. He made sure to wait until she did. “They're lucky to have you. Okay? They _are._ ”  
 _  
And so am I._

Elsa's narrow shoulders lifted and fell. It was a pitiful shrug, even by his standards. He was about to open his mouth to say more, to _demand_ that she listen to him, but—  
  
“There are rumors in the South. Of magic,” Elsa revealed, stilling the breath in Jack's lungs. She was looking at him so earnestly, with such wide-open pain, that at first he didn't hear, when she whispered, “But it's not like mine... It's of sunshine, somehow. An ancient, mystical magic, gifted from the world's first rays of sun, and it disappeared forever, once Princess Rapunzel's hair was cut.”

( _But Jack—_  
 _Jack, of course, knew better._  
  
 _He knew that the power of healing lied within Rapunzel's tears,_  
 _and the great lengths that she had gone to hide that._  
  
 _Even from Corona's King and Queen_.)

“And I just keep thinking... that... maybe there _is_ hope,” Elsa breathed deeply, loud and shaky. “Only I can't always tell what I'm hoping for—that magic like mine can one day be accepted? Or that— _somehow—_ one day—I might—”  
  
“Elsa—”  
  
“The way that— _Rapunzel lost hers_ , and I—”

She never finished.

. * * * .  
  
The rest of the evening was spent in each other's quiet company, hands intertwined.  
The darkness came and went, and with it, Elsa's shaken, uneven breathing.  
  
( _Jack stayed long after Elsa finally fell asleep, her words haunting him,  
thinking of the world's inexplicable cruelties. Playing with Elsa's braid._ )  
  
The world had already fallen in love with one Lost Princess.  
( _And what was Elsa, if not lost?_ )  
  
. * * * .  
  
([x](https://soundcloud.com/newyfreshmusic/demi-lovato-nightingale))


	80. - never opened -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/23/14_. All right, everyone! Vacation is over. I have two more chapters for tonight and then we'll have a long haul (~~a week) without any updates. Sorry! I've got a heavy work schedule over the next couple of days and a 5k to run Sunday morning (wakin' up @ 4am to start the drive, yes), so I don't think I'll have much time. And to be honest, even if I _did_ , I probably wouldn't write very much, anyway. I've been on a writing marathon over the last few days, and I'm pretty exhausted. :P
> 
> And speaking of exhaustion and productivity.... this chapter is full of milestones. ;_________; Since the last update ~~yesterday, lol~~ , this story has hit:  
> \- 400+ kudos  
> \- 100,000 words  
> \- 80 chapters
> 
> ;____________;
> 
> For those of you who have been with this story from its earliest stages, you'll remember that 80 chapters was originally my anticipated cut-off point. ~~Not anymoooooooore.~~ It's pretty ~~impossible~~ hard to believe that four months ago, this story didn't even exist and NOW IT'S AT 100,000 WORDS WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE okay. I'm okay. Okay.
> 
> Thank you, again, for all of your support! Whether it be comments, [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com) asks, kudos, bookmarks, or positive vibes being telepathically sent my way, I totally appreciate each and every single one. :)
> 
> Special thanks to [Alison](http://ahlistenalison.tumblr.com), my trusty beta and sounding board, as well as ~~fucking~~ [Rina](http://roarlikethunder.tumblr.com), my #1 cheerleader, the major goddamn reason for this goddamn fic. <3 <3 ;_________;
> 
> <3 !

 

. * * * .

\- _never opened_ -

. * * * .

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. * * * .  
  
 _. July ._  
  
. * * * .

 

The Lantern Festival of Corona was especially joyous that year.  
The royal family of Arendelle had respectfully declined its invitation.  
  
Fourteen-year-old Anna was incredibly disappointed.

 

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. * * * .  
  
. _August ._  
  
. * * * .

  
They were getting nowhere.  
  
“Well, what happens to the teeth when someone dies?” Jack held back a groan. He hardly cared anymore, if this was politically correct or not.  
  
( _“Jack, people like me do not have that luxury! Diplomacy's is often a Princess' most powerful tool.”_ )  
  
Jack eyed Bunny and Sandy, to see if they were growing as tired or as frustrated as he was; they, themselves, were engaged in some sort of heated debate, so he couldn't know for sure. Sand was all over the place. And Bunny was still ignoring him, anyways.  
  
“I see what you're trying to suggest, Jack... but the worlds' populations are steadily growing. _Exponentially_. More children are being born than there are people dying. In olden times, a plague would even the balance—”  
  
“Are you suggesting a _plague_?”  
  
“Of course not!” Toothiana snapped, her own patience frayed. “But to find a solution for today's problem, we _must_ look to history to learn; you must understand that during our existence, these exact circumstances have never happened before. Not ever.”  
  
It was like Elsa and the political-matchmaker talk all over again. (Why did he always seem to be the only one bothered by these things? He came from a small village with a small way of thinking, sure, but he wasn't naïve. Jaded, maybe.  
  
But not quite like _this_.)  
  
Another hour went by before they reached any sort of decision: if they couldn't find more Memory storage in _this_ world, then they were going to have to start looking for space in the others.  
  
It was tricky, and risky, but they had little choice.  
  
“Toothy,” North called quietly, as they all began to file out. Sandy was already gone, and Bunny was thumping himself an exit; Jack tried not to notice. “A word, please. Walk with me.”  
  
Toothiana and Jack shared one final look, before she turned and followed North up to his workshop.  
  
It was a minute or two before Jack called upon the wind.

.

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.  


( _“Yeah? And what about a Queen's?”_ he'd glibly asked, thinking himself clever.  
  
He might have been surprised by the poke to his chest,  
had he not been so preoccupied by the way it lingered, bruising in its warmth.  
  
 _“Underestimation_ ,” she'd smiled, sweet with warning,  
and Jack silently reminded himself  
to never get on her bad side.)

.

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.

. * * * .  
  
. _September_ .  
  
. * * * .

  
Prince Henrik's letter came one uneventful evening when Elsa was lounging on her chair.  
  
Jack knew something was up, instantly. (Olga had been the one to deliver it, and she'd seemed awfully peppy; you could never trust Olga to be peppy.) Jack had sprawled himself across the rug, lazing (unwillingly) about, but watched with no small twinge of suspicion when Elsa took the envelope from Olga's helpful hands and thanked her. Olga left quickly afterward, but not before chancing another peek at Elsa in her chair. (And another.) Finally, she was gone.  
  
Jack flopped over onto his stomach. (Loudly.) It sort of hurt his neck to look up at Elsa this way, resting his chin over his folded his arms, but he was far enough that he could get away with it. He stared, unabashed, as she carefully unfolded the letter. (Though his eyes may have been narrowed.) It was very fancy paper.  
  
“Prince Henrik,” she whispered, turning a bemused grin toward Jack on the floor. He scoffed, though, to his luck, it resembled more of a choking sound. Elsa scrunched her face at his, smiling at him like he was some misbehaving puppy, who was just damn lucky that he hadn't acted up enough to warrant any scolding yet. He didn't like the comparison, even if he'd been the one to make it. (Especially since he'd been the one to make it.) He didn't like any of this, actually.  
  
Elsa was still reading.  
  
It was a little scary, catching Elsa in a moment where she was so focused on something _else._ Enough that she forgot to keep on her mask.  
  
Jack was different, of course. ( _He knew that._ ) It was different in that everyone else got her polite-and-patient mask _all the time_ , whereas, he got the real thing, with only brief glimmers and snippets of the facade. Which he could usually chase away easily, with some stupid joke or a game or a laugh. (And again, that was only when she bothered to put it on in the first place.) _Most_ of the time—even since the ball—Elsa was so focused on _him_ , and his nonsense, and their training, that it was all she had attention for. (Although, there'd been a point at the ball where he hadn't been so sure...) There'd come a point in their friendship, however long ago, that Elsa had simply stopped trying to keep one on.  
  
But Elsa was smiling as she read her letter, and she wore no mask.  
  
And Jack had nothing to do with it.  
  
He cleared his throat gently, but that hurt his neck. It felt stupid, trying to interrupt her—because _this was the point, you jackass_ , that she start developing supports that didn't _involve_ him—but her face had fallen in the split second that Jack had risen up onto his elbows, and cold dread welled itself in his gut. He was dying of curiosity.  
  
“What's it say?” he croaked, clearing his throat again. He was just as bad as any of the other busybody Guardians. He couldn't help it.  
  
Elsa took a moment to finish; he tried to be patient. This really was a really awkward way to look up at her, but he was wary of moving. Or breathing.  
  
“Prince Henrik has written to me personally,” she explained, staring down at the note in her lap. Her expression was thoughtful, but the excitement that had flared at the letter's arrival was no longer there. “He shared his hope that I will join my parents in attendance for this year's summit,” she told him. “In October.”  
  
Jack got the feeling that she was waiting for his reaction.  
  
“Uhh... That's... good, isn't it?” he tried, ignoring the tension in his shoulders. “Right?”  
  
She didn't answer.  
  
“Right?” he coughed, desperately hoping that he was wrong.  
  
“It would have been...” Elsa conceded. “Had my parents not informed me two days ago that they were declining the invitation.”  
  
Jack tried to play it cool.  
  
“Ah,” he muttered, torn between aiming for sympathy and outright laughing his relief. He willed his stomach to quit dancing. Jack coughed. “What for?”  
  
Elsa laughed—a dry, brittle sound that made her seem a lot older than she really was. “Arendelle is still unstable, or so they claim,” she noted quietly. “They are not prepared to make such a voyage at this time... and their communication with the Isles have been sufficiently acceptable, although they won't deny that face-to-face is ideal. Still. They will not yet be venturing overseas anytime soon.”  
  
Jack placed his chin into a hand, considering her. There was a lot going on with what she'd just said, and Jack wanted to make sure that he got to the heart of the matter. Elsa's words were growing more and more complicated with each passing year, but—  
  
Jack was pretty good at his job.  
  
“Do you believe them?” he asked her. “About them being needed in Arendelle, after all?”  
  
Elsa smiled at him, tight and truthful. “I have no doubts that they are needed,” she said quietly. “What I wonder is how much it is truly Arendelle they are looking out for.”

 

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. * * * .  
  
. _October_ .  
  
. * * * .  
  
  
The Royal Summit on the Southern Isles was a great success, as always.  
Ambassadors came home with good news of fresh imports,  
fine companionship, and frugal spending. And friendship.  
  
One by one, the ports prepared their docks for winter, hauling out half the ships and scrubbing the hulls.  
The leaves changed. The air grew colder, and so did the sea.  
  
Around the world, gates were closed, shutting out the harsh winter air...  
while Arendelle's had never opened.

.

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.  
  
. * * * .


	81. - at stake -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/23/14_. Welp. This is it for a while, guys.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the cliffhanger. <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- at stake -_  
  
. * * * .  
.  
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.  
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.

  
. * * * .  
 _  
_( _late_ ) _  
_  
. _November_ .  
  
. * * * .

He got the summons sometime around noon.  
  
(The fact that he made it there before two o'clock Arendelle time was a testament to his ever-growing commitment. Responsibility. Punctuality. Some combination of the three.)  
  
They met at Tooth Palace—somewhere off the coast of Cambodia, this time—at roughly 50,000 feet in the clouds and, strangely enough, Jack was not the last one to arrive.  
  
“Where's Sandy?”  
  
“Over the Indian Ocean,” Bunny snapped, staring down at him over his twitching nose, arms stiffly crossed. “He'll get here when he gets here.”  
  
They'd talked once or twice—civilly, for the most part—but Bunny was like an elephant who never forgot. (And it'd taken _days_ for that eggnog to get out of his ears.) Jack quietly mused that, given everything Bunny had done for him—and the smelly way he'd ended up repaying him—he could probably stand a few more months of cold shoulder.  
  
“What's so funny?”  
  
“Nothing,” Jack waved him off, getting himself under control. Bunny eyed him suspiciously.  
  
A brilliant, sparkling blast of blue light alerted them to North's arrival. Jack was about to crack a joke about his tardiness—  
  
But North didn't seem to be in the mood.  
  
“You are late.”  
  
Jack's eyes narrowed. That was quite the greeting for a guy who'd showed up ten minutes later than _he_ had.  
  
“Come,” North commanded, striding past them without a second glance. He was alone, no yetis or elves in sight, and the swish of his heavy, red cloak trailed past their feet with grim tension. Bunny and Jack eyed one another warily. The tiny hairs on the back of Jack's neck prickled.  
  
“What gives?” demanded Bunny, as they hurried to catch up. Jack admittedly had a harder time of it, given North's unusual haste and Bunny's unnatural speed. North was leading them deeper into the golden palace, farther than Jack had ever ventured. They rounded a corner and came across a long stretch of wall, a brightly-colored mosaic of glimmering tiles. It reminded Jack of the one inside the castle gates of Corona in the town square, or the one in Toothiana's courtyard.  
  
“Hey!” Bunny growled, eyes narrowing fiercely as he leaned closer to North's face. Unwittingly, Jack Frost stepped back, watching the two in surprise. His eyes were wide, and his heart had started pounding some twenty paces ago, but it was only now that Jack realized how far his stomach had dropped. “What in the hell is going on?” Bunny hissed, accent thicker with indignant alarm, and when North rose a fist and slammed it toward—  
  
—Jack's eyes were closed when the first sounds of shifting rock grated his ears, and when he finally squinted open one eye, North's mighty fist was still where the wall had once been, where brick and mortar and mosaic were peeling themselves away, a live puzzle determined to take itself apart. Jack stared, transfixed, at the complete darkness beyond. His arms were still raised to brace himself, and by the time he found the clarity of mind to lower his guard, North was staring back at them. Quiet and severe.  
  
Bunny's eyes were wide. His mouth hung open in silence, and Jack watched as he and North held a private conversation with their gazes, cautious and determined. Something shifted in Bunnymund's face—a slight slant to his brow, a stiffening of his ears—and then there was a nod, sharp and certain, and when North turned to Jack and nodded into the dark void beyond the broken wall, Bunny showed no hesitation in following.  
  
Jack blinked.  
  
“Hey!” he called, rooted to the spot. “Anybody want to explain to me what the hell is going on here?”  
  
North and Bunny both turned back, but Bunny was the only one who spoke.  
  
“Come on, kid,” he called quietly, tired and grim. Jack stared back disbelievingly. His every instinct screamed away from the darkness.

( _Quick!_ it hissed, an unknown voice, in the farthest corners of his mind.  
Unnamed, and yet as familiar to him as his sister's.  
 _Jump! Before it's too late—_  
  
 _Move_!)

“Where are we going?” Jack demanded, gripping his staff tight in his fist. His knuckles were white. His voice had caught, at the end.  
  
Bunny sighed.  
  
“It's okay, Frost,” he said, expression softening, but only slightly. “We're going to meet Tooth.”  
  
That was hardly the answer Jack was looking for, but North's gaze gripped his, unblinking. His eyes were bright and patient and older than he'd ever, ever seen them.  
  
Jack swallowed hard, and stepped into the darkness.

. * * * .

The abyss, as it turned out, was a portal. Where it went, Jack wasn't even sure Bunny knew. This place was too cold, too dark to be somewhere in the clouds, but it didn't feel like Bunny's Warren either, buried underground. It reminded Jack of the Memory Vault.  
  
And then Jack realized that it was.  
  
Not the same one where the Guardians' Memories were kept—but a different one. A _larger_ one. It was a grand cavern of Memories, beautiful and gleaming, the light of childhood happiness leading the way through the dark. Pathways marked by generations, shelves grouped in families. Emeralds and sapphires and rubies glittered, untouched, from every crevice of the rock face, diamonds bringing light to the cavernous maze in makeshift chandeliers. These gemstones were not valuables, Jack realized. Not in here.  
  
He'd never seen so many Memory Boxes all at once.  
  
All tucked away, visible only by the painted faces on their golden-plated covers. Some of them weren't even listed by name. But Tooth must have known them all, anyway. Each and every one.  
  
They'd found her poring over a massive book at the end of a long walk, a mammoth text that was ten times the size she was. Diagrams and names, lists of years and illustrations of family trees. It was a codex of some kind. An archive of all the baby teeth that had ever been lost.  
  
Ever.  
  
“Once she was a Guardian, at least,” Bunny whispered quietly, correcting Jack before he even realized he'd spoken out loud. “The ones that came before... well. It was a long, long time ago.”  
  
Toothiana stiffened at the sound of voices, halting the three in their tracks. Jack held his breath.  
  
When Toothiana turned to them, it was clear that she'd been crying.  
  
She was in North's huge hold in an instant, rigid and shaking with unbridled dismay. Jack stared, disbelieving, and as broken sob echoed through the high, towering walls, Jack felt the first true traces of fear.  
  
“North, I _looked_ —” Toothiana was saying, caught between whispers and cries. “I looked _everywhere_. My fairies, they—not even with _magic_ —we couldn't—”  
  
“Hush,” North commanded, soothing the frazzled feathers at her temple. She clutched tightly to his cloak, her cries expanding out into the endless space around them. Bunny stood with Jack off to the side, quiet and pensive. Jack looked on, helpless.  
  
What the fuck was going on?  
  
“It is not your fault,” North whispered, with conviction.  
  
A bright cloud of golden light exploded into the cavern, far off in the distance. The fierce light mingled with the reflections shimmering off the walls, and it burst forward in a storm of sand, coming right at them—and quickly.  
  
North's embrace was exchanged for Sandy's quiet concern, the clasp of hands as he peered up at her in heartbroken sympathy, and it was then that Jack started to click everything into place.  
  
“The missing teeth,” Jack whispered, so quietly, but it turned every head toward his. His eyes slowly rose to meet Toothiana's—his wide blue to meet her red-rimmed amethyst—and he was welcoming her into his arms before he could finish the thought. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, careful not to crush her, even if he knew she was a lot tougher than she looked. His chin buried itself in her shoulder. Her nose found the hood of his sweatshirt.  
  
“Eighteen,” she whispered into the fabric, sniffling against the frost. Jack's gaze sought out the others, looking for answers.  
  
They looked just as helpless as he was.

. * * * .

Jack stared up at the floating orbs and tried not to glare.  
  
There were so many of them.  
  
The most familiar, bathed in millions of white-golden lights, showed the Uɴɪᴛᴇᴅ Sᴛᴀᴛᴇs and AυѕтяαƖια and Россия and a whole lotta blue. And there was another familiar globe off to the side, a few down the line. It was not nearly as packed with dots of white light as Earth was, but it was just as beautiful, all the same.  
  
(ΛRЄИÐЄĿĿЄ, he spotted immediately; his eyes caught on a kingdom he'd never visited, Tɦє Hɪєʅʌɲɗƨ, and finally, familiar Cօɾօղმ.) There was another sphere, more directly in his line of sight, that looked misshapen and treacherous, with harsh, unforgiving terrain. ( _BiяK?_ ) He looked away then, quickly. He didn't bother to count them all.  
  
 _And we're responsible... for all of them?_  
  
He was gonna be sick.

Toothiana's voice drifted in and out of his awareness. She was pointing to different places on the globe called Earth, speaking of the young girl from Jacksonville whose tooth had been missing since mid-May. (Of the seventeen other little boys and girls who had _lost_ -lost their teeth since, teeth which had not been found.) He tried to follow along, but his attention inevitably drifted elsewhere... to a different world.  
  
It took Jack around half an hour to put it all together. That they hadn't been summoned to form a search party.  
  
That something far bigger was at stake.  
  
“What happens when the teeth are lost?” Bunny asked quietly, arms crossed. Jack didn't have to look at him to know that Bunny's eyes were trained on the same globe that his were. “To the Memories?”  
  
Toothiana sighed, deep and pained. “Childhood is too grand to be stored in any one tooth,” she explained. “It's complicated... the teeth can only host so many Memories in each. Each tooth could represent any number of things, depending on the child—a number of years. A particular season. Their fondest memories, all in one,” she whispered. “It can be anything.”  
  
 _Anything_.  
  
Ice trickled down Jack Frost's spine.  
  
“The teeth will protect the Memories on their own, as best they can,” she added, sighing longingly at the rows of globes before them. “They are strong, especially if the children have taken the time and energy to care for them. To properly nourish them, and treasure them... We have been lucky in recent years to have so many children who _do,_ but we keep them here, in the Vaults, to ensure their continued safety. Enamel wears down. When _we_ don't even know where to look, the Memories are harder for the humans to find... This has never happened before. Not this many, all at once.”  
  
“What do you recommend?” North asked steadily, after a long moment of contemplation. “There are still many teeth to be moved. Halt transfer? Continue, with haste?”  
  
Tooth bit her lip, thinking carefully. “I've considered the options,” she spoke slowly and clearly. “It is not safe to stop now. We will have to move quickly, but be more careful than ever. No tooth gets left behind. I... I'm afraid that I will have to split myself again.”  
  
 _Split—?_  
  
“Tooth, no!”  
  
“Do not be ridiculous!”  
  
“What other choice do we have?” Toothiana hissed, glaring up at North and Bunnymund, who were staring down at her with twin expressions of horror. “There aren't enough of me to go around!”  
  
Jack's eyes widened. Toothiana was going to create _more_ of her tooth fairies?  
  
“What will that do to you?” Jack whispered, mouth suddenly dry.  
  
Tooth sighed. She didn't look at anyone, only the ground, when she said, “It will make me very weak... but it will make me stronger, too. I will need time to recover, but it will be worth it, in the end.”  
  
Jack didn't know what to say to that. North and Bunnymund didn't seem to like it, so neither did he. They didn't say anything, though. Jack wanted to, but wouldn't know where to begin.  
  
“Toothiana,” North said softly. “It is time.”  
  
 _Time? Time for what?_  
  
Jack looked on, questioningly, glancing at Bunnymund and Sandy for clues... but they looked just as confused as he did. Jack turned back to the wordless exchange between North and Toothiana and seriously, he was starting to get really fucking sick of being left out of the loop like this.  
  
“It is only a theory,” she whispered.  
  
But North did not hold back. “It is a dangerous one,” he answered. “And the only one we have.”  
  
“All right,” Bunnymund stepped forward, and Sandy was looking pretty edgy too. It was nice to feel a bit of anger again, after so much anxiety. Jack welcomed the scowl to his face. “Either of you busy-bees want to fill us in, or are we just gonna stand around all day while you—”  
  
“The Memories are being tampered with.”  
  
“Wha...what?”  
  
Toothiana sighed, long and suffering, but this time, instead of tears—there was fury. Her wings carried her higher, to the marked lights scattered around a globe. It was Earth.  
  
“Something has been interfering with the natural order of teeth,” North stoutly declared. “Stealing teeth from children, and leaving their Memories unprotected by Guardians' eyes.”  
  
“But there's more,” added Toothiana darkly, running a small hand through her feathers. A few of them had already fallen to the ground, slipped away as she fell sick with worry. “There is _magic_ involved. The magical patterns do nothing to the alter the original Memories... They merely bury them, below _new_ Memories.”  
  
“Why's that sound so bloody familiar?” Bunny whispered.  
  
Toothiana clenched her jaw. Her eyes were on Jack's when she straightened her shoulders back, and quietly announced, “Because we have dealt with this before.”  
  
There was a lump in Jack's throat, hard and unforgiving.  
  
It would have been a problem, had he been breathing.  
  
“The _Trolls_ ,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Of course! The Trolls of Arendelle. It's what they did to Anna—to protect her from the Accident! And what they did to kidnap Kristoff.”  
  
“We don't _know_ that for sure,” Toothiana corrected, voice hard. “It was a theory.”  
  
“And here's another theory!” Jack argued fiercely. “This one could be right, too!”  
  
“So, what, you're—you're telling us that the Trolls have something to do with this?” Bunny demanded incredulously, blazing right over their battle of wills. Toothiana turned to him to answer, effectively breaking her stern staring contest with Jack. He didn't look away.  
  
“It's their magic, but it's not them,” Toothiana tried to explain. “It's not even _their_ magic, it's—it's their patterns. It's—someone has learned their spells and is casting them on their own.”  
  
Jack's eyes narrowed. He wracked his brain, recalling everything Elsa had ever told him about that night in the Troll Garden. The way they'd reached out and placed a small, heavy hand on her sister's forehead—the Memories had flashed before _her_ eyes, too, in a cloud of imagination, and changed, like caking another layer of paint over one of the portraits in her father's gallery, until it was a new piece entirely. The implications were serious. If someone had learned how to harness the Trolls' special magic, then anyone's Memories could be tampered with. Any memory.

 _Elsa_.  
  
His heart pounded in his chest.  
  
“But...” Jack licked his dry lips, overcome with the very thought. _Shit,_ he cursed. He had to talk to Tooth. Immediately. _Fuck!_

( _Where are Elsa's Memories being stored?_  
 _Where are Anna's—?_ )

Mind still reeling, he snarled out, “Who the fucking hell would want a bunch of teeth and Troll magic?”  
  
Beside him, Bunny stiffened. He could see Sandy breathing deep on North's other side, slow and steady but rapidly growing shakier. Jack got the distinct impression that everyone around him was connecting the dots, making themselves a picture, but he'd somehow gotten lost in the mess.  
  
Toothiana's eyes were bright with Fear.  
  
“Jack,” she whispered. “It's Pitch.”

. * * * .


	82. - a wall -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/28/14_. Not quite the week-long break that I said it'd be, but these chapters came a lot quicker than I thought they would, and they've been sitting around for at least a day. Two tonight, at least one tomorrow! ~~I apologize in advance.~~
> 
> Also, a special thanks to everyone who's reviewed and commented so far, and an especially heartfelt thanks to everyone who commented on the previous chapter. <3 <3 **CrazyAce** , I literally printed out your review and taped it to the inside of my fic notebook. I haven't replied yet because I haven't actually found the words, but I just want you to know that it meant a lot to me. <3 <3 <3 These next few chapters are for you!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- a wall -_  
  
. * * * .

Tooth was still talking.  
  
“He's been testing the waters,” she was saying. ( _Pitch_ , he thought, like a chisel to the brain, rattling down his spine.) “We think he's been experimenting—burying tiny bits of happiness, little by little... He never strikes in the same place twice.”

(It came again, fierce and feral; a silent snarl in the slow unfurl of darkness,  
low and hateful and tainted.  
  
— _Pitch._ )

“So where's the slimy sinkhole-demon now?” Bunnymund hissed, lip curling with disgust.  
  
“We don't know,” Toothiana answered quietly, neither sad nor fearful, nor anything; the sounds washed right over him. “We aren't even certain that it _is_ Pitch. It's only a—”  
  
“Oh, it's Pitch, all right,” Bunny muttered darkly. “This has got the _reek_ of him all over it.”  
  
 _What about any patterns?_ asked Sandy, in a burst of golden dust. _Is there any connection between the victims?  
  
_ The victims.  
  
Imperceptibly, Jack's fingers tightened over his arms. His breath quickened in his lungs.  
  
“Unfortunately... there is,” she answered, and it was clear that she'd been dreading this question. “In the seven months since the first strike, eighteen children have been affected; the children whose teeth have gone missing were already susceptible to fear and anxiety, or mild to severe cases of childhood depression. He's trying to lay low,” she whispered, tight and rigid. “By choosing children on whom the effects will not draw so much notice.”  
  
Jack scoffed, harsh and loud, but it was lost under North's commanding voice. Lay low, huh?  
  
( _Or maybe he's just as cruel as ever_.)  
  
Jack shook his head, ridding himself of the thought.  
  
He needed to get back to Elsa.  
  
“—more serious than even when Pitch was attacking dreams,” North's gritty, quiet snarl cut through the cavern. “His ability to corrupt dreams has made him quick-learner, has made it easier for him to use this foreign magic. It will not be long until he will begin to better target them, until he will be able to erase the Memories altogether.”  
  
Bunnymund's entire form jolted, so violently and abruptly that it was a full second before Jack realized that his had done the same.  
  
“I thought you said he was just buryin' them!” Bunny exclaimed, rigid and accusing.  
  
“Pitch will not be content with merely hiding them beneath new ones,” Toothiana argued, voice cracking with strain and exhaustion and anger. “As long as there's still a chance of Hope that they may resurface—it won't be enough. Not until every happy Memory has been destroyed.”  
  
 _“_ Shit,” someone swore, though Jack couldn't be sure of who. (Shit.) Shit, indeed.  
  
He had to find a way to talk to Tooth.

( _Were Elsa's Memories in a Vault somewhere, too?_  
 _Hidden in these very walls?_  
  
 _Or were they still waiting—?_  
 _Lost amongst the many in the clouds?_ )

  
Bunny had gone stock-still, absorbing her words. Voice tight and tenuous, he quietly demanded, “How long?”  
  
Toothiana shrugged, helplessly. “It could be years,” she whispered. “Or months.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
Tooth turned to him, sharp and sudden; he must have said that out loud.  
  
“Fuck,” he repeated, numb and breathless, so he could hear it, too.  
  
( _Stupid. How could have been so fucking_ stupid _?_ )  
  
“The dangers do not end there,” North went on, striding forward to the massive codex laid open before them. Jack looked up, trying to follow him with his eyes, but the colors burned together. All he could see was a cloak of deep red. “Though Pitch will attack anyone vulnerable enough to Believe in him, he has never concerned himself with targeting adults; this changes, now. If Pitch were to find the Vaults, then _anyone—_ parents, grandparents, adults of any kind—would be potential target. He could target anyone, no matter how young or old.”  
  
“There's only so much I can do at once,” Toothiana burst in, suddenly. “The number of teeth is increasing all the time. Even with the protection of the Vaults, there are—it's so many, and—to keep track—”  
  
“Toothiana, this isn't your fault,” Bunny cut in, almost harshly in its firmness. “This is _Pitch_ —this is all it's ever been about. Pitch and his bloody demons, and his crusade for another Dark Age. That's all it's ever been about, so don't you dare go blamin' yourself.”  
  
But it's not.  
  
Jack didn't realize, at first, that the thought had not been his own; it'd been presented to him in a soft curl of sand, silent and certain.  
  
“Sandy,” North boomed, intimidating in his leadership. In his alarm. “What do you mean?”  
  
 _This was the closest he'd come to victory in centuries,_ Sandy told them, and Jack leaned forward, caught on every shape. This isn't just about getting the Belief that he wants. He wants more.  
  
“So, what—a _permanent_ round of Dark Ages, then?” Bunny snapped.  
  
Yes, Sandy replied, thoughtfully grim, while Bunnymund stilled in his tracks. And revenge.

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

( _And silently, the tight coils that had wound themselves_  
 _around Jack Frost's existence_  
 _slowly began to_  
  
 _—snap_.)

“This is personal,” North whispered, and immediately knew it to be true. “He won't stop at erasing all happiness—of children and adults alike—”  
  
“—he'll make sure that no child ever Believes in a Guardian again,” Toothiana rasped, broken with realization. “Until we're reduced to nothing.”  
  
“But not before he tortures us,” Bunnymund snarled, eyes glowing with hatred. “Not until everything we love turns to dust and darkness—while we _watch._ ”  
  
 _No_ , Jack's mind whispered, throbbing pain in his head condensing to a dull white noise. His blood ran colder. _No_.  
  
“Bunnymund!” North growled, thick with command. “Toothiana! That is _enough_! It will not happen! There is still—”  
  
 _No, no, no, no no nononono—NO!  
  
“_ This is not the time to—” _  
  
No_ —  
  
“ _Fuck—!_ ”  
  
Jack dropped to the floor, staff clattering, forehead slamming to his knees—balls of his feet scraping along rock and gravel _and jagged stone_ —hands over the back of his head, pressing in like he was trying to cave in his own skull.  
  
( _Maybe that would be better_.)  
  
He launched upwards, and his fist connected with trembling rock, blood and ripped skin and sandstone shards.  
  
“ _Jack_ —get a fucking hold of yourself!”  
  
There was an echo curving up his arm, ricocheting through his bones, and the concern, at first glance, was not so easy to see.  
  
“ _How_ _?_ ” he snarled up into Bunny's face, and his head was pounding, and his hand was throbbing, but nothing hurt worse than his chest, tight and hot and splintering, and his eyes, which burned. “How that fuck am I supposed to react? Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“Jack! _Bunny!_ ” North snarled, suddenly close between their faces, loud and booming in Jack's ears, too loud. (Too _loud_.) His body towered over them both, twice as thick as Bunny's—like a wall—and Jack had the screaming urge to—  
  
There was something trickling between his fingers, wet and cold.

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( _So, you can still bleed, can you?_ )

 

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The silence that followed was sobering.  
  
And then all Jack felt was pain.

  
. * * *.

 


	83. - one hand -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/28/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
- _one hand -_  
  
. * * * .

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jack hissed into the wind, and swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand.  
  
It was a while before the others had let him go. He couldn't look Toothiana in the eye. Bunnymund had staunchly avoided him. Sandy had pleaded, if not with words then with his gaze, but Jack was too exhausted to decipher any of the million things that Sandy could have been asking of him, and passed by with little more than a nod.  
  
North's eyes had followed him the whole way out, until he'd cut left through the sky and disappeared behind a cloud. He was fine.  
  
He was not fine. He was _far_ from fine, but fine was where Arendelle was, so that's where he was going. He just had to pull himself together before he got there.  
  
But time flies when you're busy considering all the ways your worst enemy could possibly crush everything you've worked hard to build, and the journey to the castle was over before he was fully prepared for it to be. He did laps around the forest, and then the fields. He started his way toward Kristoff in the mountains, but then turned back, before he'd gone too far.  
  
“ _Focus_ ,” he spat, and rubbed at his eyes, then hissed when the bandages caught on his cheek. He fixed them without looking, which pulled them too tight. Maybe he deserved it.  
  
He'd never forgive himself, if he was the one to trigger Elsa's fear.  
  
 _So fucking stupid_ , his mind swirled, over and over again. He'd _known_. He _felt_ it—he'd sat beside Toothiana in Bunnymund's Warren and watched her go, _knowing_ in his gut that something was wrong. And he'd just let it happen.  
  
And _why—?_ Because he was comfortable? Because he liked the idea of being on the alert— _at the ready_ —but not having to actually worry about anything? Because he didn't want to believe that his little world was fragile enough to crumble?

( _Because he was happy?_ )

Jack Frost should know better.

. * * * .

 

When he arrived at her window, he didn't knock.  
  
Instead, he looked in, careful not to be seen behind the ledge. She was at her desk, despite the late hour— _or maybe_ , he allowed himself to wonder, _because of it_ —and from his little corner he could see the flutter of her quill, flowing across the page. Her jacket hung carefully over the chair. Her hair, coiled neatly at the nape of her neck.  
  
The lamps were burning bright, and Jack couldn't actually see the hearth, but he knew that a fire was glowing its warm light across the room. ( _It's the little things_ , Jack's mind whispered spitefully, _that make her normalcy easier to believe_.)  
  
Jack wrenched himself away from the thought, ducking his forehead against the window's ledge. He sucked in a deep breath, cold and refreshing, and willed himself to calm down. He needed to calm down.  
  
Tentative fingers reached back around around the grate, and he peered into the room, taking in its silence, its peace and calm and quiet. He watched Elsa drag her quill across the page a few times, and let himself be soothed by the familiarity. His temple found the edge of the window, and leaned.  
  
And to think, just three hours before, he'd been foolishly secure in the belief that he'd never lose her.  
  
( _You don't deserve her_.)  
  
Jack's eyes narrowed, but this time, he didn't push the thought away... not immediately. He'd always had it, somewhere in the back of his mind, that one day she'd grow up and get married and have a family and grow old, but that was _later_. Time had slowly made it known; the ball had made it _real_. He knew that she would leave him one day, in whatever form that took—a husband, maybe, or by the call of her kingdom, or the ever-knocking truth of mortality.  
  
(But that was _later_.)  
  
And today, Jack realized that he was just as naïve as he'd always been.  
  
The years had gone by too quickly, and he hadn't stopped to truly savor any of them. (How many of these moments would be preserved in _his_ Memory Box?) Would he still be able to look upon these times ten years from now? A hundred? Jack didn't know. The years had slipped through his fingers all the while, and he'd never even so much as thought to notice. ( _Had she?_ )  
  
And now, their Memories could slip away altogether.  
  
“Shit,” he hissed, peeling his temple away from the ledge. He was doing it again. ( _You never learn_.) Wasting away the seconds, content to let them pass by—  
  
Elsa looked up, startled by the howl of wind that sent her pages whipping loudly against their bindings. Her body twisted towards the window, against the violent chill, clenching a hand onto the back of her chair, fisting itself in the heavy fabric of her jacket, bracing the other against the darkly-lacquered desk. Her eyes were wide.  
  
“Jack?” she whispered, visibly taut with shock, then sagging with relief when she caught sight of him at the window—tall, with staff in hand. Her eyes closed with the force of it. With the breath that soothed her.  
  
His mouth ran dry, his throat, raw and hot in the worst possible of ways. He sucked this moment in—the sweep of her hair, the tilt of her frown—and stored it away, consciously, deliberately, every freckle and lash and standstill breath. As if it were something to be cherished, because it was.  
  
As if he could capture every moment like this, the now and the future and the already-somehow-forgotten.  
  
“Jack, this isn't funny anymore,” she scolded, the quiet timbre giving strength to the height of her anger; the shuddering breath as she stood, her distress. “It's one thing to come bounding inside in the light of day, but if you're going to completely disregard—”  
  
Her eyes had opened, letting in the light, and Jack committed himself to every fleck of it, every shade and hue and slice of recognition. Her anger and frustration, her disappointment; her confusion and dismay and alarm, the whorl of them circling all together, discernible only by the skill of experience, in years and sighs and silences; her focus, and attention, the crutch he'd never had the nerve to label, and all of the weight of that gaze, the intensity and warmth, piercing and fulfilling, the patches over three hundred years' worth of the lonely fabric of his existence.  
  
Her fear.  
  
“ _Jack_ —” she gasped, then jerked forward— _instincts calling, mind whirling_ —and caught herself with a grappling hand over the back of her chair. One hand reached out, tentative and unsure, as she urged him with her gaze to explain. Her feet remained rooted to the spot.  
  
But he was already striding towards her.  
  
He crashed into her, the wall of his sternum crushing to hers, the staff abandoned somewhere on the floor. His arms wrapped themselves around her, but it wasn't enough, wasn't the same as his palm spreading wide across the blades of her shoulder,s, curling flat against the base of her skull, so he did, pressing his jaw to her temple—her hair, into his eyes.  
  
“Jack,” she whispered, soft and quiet, and most certainly afraid. “What's happened? What's wrong?” All at once, her bare hands found the front of his sweatshirt, uncommonly cold even against skin as cold as his, and Jack sighed a deep, harsh breath. This wasn't what he wanted. This was the last thing she needed, and he was only making things worse, acting without thinking, thinking only of himself.  
  
His breathing quickened against his will, short and useless and quiet against the wind. He tried to let go—to step back and explain, properly—but his hands only found deeper holds in the wrinkles of her dress, seeking something _deeper_ —  
  
“Hey,” she swallowed, and he could feel it, the heat of her throat so close to the space of his own. Her breath was as short as his, and twice as shaky, but her voice was light when she laughed, brittle and airy and forced, and said, “You're back. I'm here, okay? I believe in you. Okay?”  
  
Something inside him cracked—a screaming fissure, long broken but ever widening—and with it, all the stupid, childish dreams he'd once thought possible. ( _An existence without darkness, where Love conquered Fear.  
  
Where Freedom was possible._ )  
  
He held Elsa in his arms, and thought of all the Memories she held dear, and of all that they could lose. ( _A flower crown at the first sight of spring; the first night he'd arrived on her balcony, a ghost in strange clothing; the snowballs and laughter, the fun and the lessons, the progress she'd made.  
  
The first time they'd danced._ ) _  
_  
He could lose it all. Buried beneath dark magic, or worse.  
  
Gone.  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, out of instinct and reflex. “I just... It was a hard day,” he answered, licking dry lips, and found himself unable to offer any more.  
  
“Jack—what happened to your hand? Are you all right?” He felt the push of her small fists on his chest, as she fought against him to better see his face, but Jack held tight, and had no intention of letting go. Not soon. Not tonight.  
  
( _Because one day, eventually—you might not get the choice_.)  
  
“It's stupid,” Jack dismissed it easily, and the laugh almost sounded genuine—almost. His fingers curled into the wisps of her hair at her neck, toying with the ones that had already come loose. Pulling free a few that hadn't. He pressed his jaw against the softness of her hair, keeping her in place. “It's actually pretty embarrassing, so... I'll be taking this one to the grave, if you don't mind.”  
  
Elsa stiffened in his hold. He hadn't even realized what he'd said, until her little voice trembled into his shirt, “Is that supposed to be funny?”  
  
— _oh_.   
  
He fought the urge to laugh, a deeply rooted thing pitted innately in fibers of his soul—hot and delirious, rough and bitter and cut with irony—and then suddenly, the inescapable, desperate urge to cry.  
  
“No,” he whispered, nuzzling her hair. “No, it's not.”  
  
Elsa was quiet for a long minute, and Jack let himself make peace with the silence. Before long, his eyes had drifted shut.  
  
“Jack... are you okay?”  
  
“Not really,” he answered, with far less hesitation than he would have thought possible. “Not right now.”  
  
Elsa considered, swift and silent.  
  
“Is this helping?” she asked, a breath on the wind.  
  
Jack opened his eyes. He took a moment to register the feel of her in his hands, tactile and real and a familiar kind of warmth. (They'd held hands before—many, many times. They'd laughed and they'd pushed and they'd played, and her hands had gone without gloves for months, but Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd held her in his arms, any time that they might have ever hugged or embraced, until—  
  
Memory struck.)

Jack closed his eyes against it, the feel of her tiny, sobbing frame as the room splintered into ice, encased with an unnatural chill by a power unlike anything he'd ever seen, wrought by nothing more than the terror of one frightened little girl, and a nightmare.  
  
( _You were so easy to manipulate_. _Your worst Fears, so easy to see_.)  
  
Jack tightened his hold, pressed his heart close to hers, and managed a nod, quiet and honest and with the faintest slip of laughter.  
  
“Yeah,” he swallowed, whispering into the wind, “It is.”  
  
And he let himself wonder, one final time, if some Memories were best left forgotten.

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He'd been so easy for Pitch to manipulate, all his selfish concern and blindness.  
  
Some things had changed; others, not so much. Only time would really tell what power he held against him.  
Pitch was back, and he was coming. He would find Jack, eventually, and he would seek his ruin.  
  
But Jack knew, above all else, more than anything he'd ever known,  
that he wouldn't let it happen.  
  
Not again.

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The night wore on and, eventually, Jack _did_ let go.  
  
He had to.  
  
. * * * .


	84. - couldn't resist -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/1/14_. As many of you already know, you can find a grand many things related to this story on my [tumbr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)! Whether it's a fuckton of pretty Jelsa gifset reblogs or Frozen metas, or the Six Sentence Sunday habit I'm trying to jumpstart for chapter previews, or even just more information on when the next chapter will probably be out, you can find it all on my tumblr. ;) ~~ALSO WE CAN BE FRIENDS~~
> 
> Anyway.

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _couldn't resist_ -  
  
. * * * .

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Jack knew he was asking for a lot.  
  
He just didn't know if he'd finally gone too far.  
  
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“Jack... I _can't_.”  
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“Tooth,” he swallowed, chest tightening with a fresh wave of panic. “I just—”  


“ _Listen_ to yourself,” Toothiana whispered, distant and disappointed. He'd taken her granted, and then apologized, sworn to make it right—  
  
Only just to turn around and let her down all over again.  
  
( _You never learn_.)  
  
Jack reared back, hurt and guilt and frustration. “Can you blame me?” he asked, and there was truth in those words, under the defensive lines and edges. But Toothiana wouldn't hear it.  
  
She turned away from him, shaking her head. The view from Tooth Palace was gray with winter, clouds thick and dull with chill; he probably hadn't helped. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.  
  
But there was strength in it... and the growing realization that, this time, she may not give into him.  
  
“What gives our assignments any more right to protection than the rest of the children we serve?” she challenged, firm and genuine and direct. (He was _imagining_ the judgment; Tooth. Didn't. Judge.)  
  
Jack tried to remember that.  
  
“We were assigned to them for a _reason!_ ” he argued, and _shit_ , he was getting defensive again. His words got tangled, his mind bright white and flashing blank. He must have prepared an argument— _he'd rehearsed it all night, from the first moment that Elsa was sound asleep_ —but hell if he could remember it now. “They _need_ us!”  
  
“And so do the rest!” Toothiana countered, twisting to face him. He neither stepped forward nor back as she surged closer, wings fluttering wildly— “How can I possibly allow myself to work _this_ hard to protect the Memories of a mere _few_ when so many others will suffer the risk?” Her voice was breaking, truly angry— “Jack, this is _not_ what our special support is supposed to be about!”  
  
( _How would_ you _know?_ )  
  
A soft sound escaped him, sharp and pained, and Jack quickly, desperately squashed the thought. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. (His chest, cold with bitterness.)  
  
He said nothing. Only breathed.  
  
And Jack didn't believe it, even as he saw Tooth caving.  
  
“Jack... think of what you're asking me to do,” she whispered, staring up at him from under rose-tipped lashes. It carved a hole in his gut, right through the center, cracked and burning with shame.  
  
She looked so tired, and so worn down from endless stress and uncertainty. Her entire world was falling apart, on scales both small and large, and for all intents and purposes, _she_ was enduring the burden alone. (No matter how hard the others tried to help carry it for her; _it's not the same_.) She was slowly tearing herself apart, more literally than Jack would have liked to believe, and here he was, asking her to do it again.  
  
 _She doesn't deserve any of this_ , Jack sighed, licking his dry, cracked lips.

And especially not from him.  
  
“Jack, you're asking me to go against my beliefs,” she told him, desperate for him to understand. “My _vows_ .”  
  
When Jack swallowed down the lump in his throat, he imagined that it may have very well been the last trace of any selflessness he had left.  
  
“Tooth,” he whispered—as if the quiet could save him from the guilt. He looked her in the eye, and said, “I'm _begging_ you.”  


. * * * .  


Jack still wasn't allowed to know where their Vault was. (He wouldn't have dared to ask.) Two days later, he watched her place the Memory Box into the same chamber where the Guardians' lay, in a large set of velvet-lined shelves not far off to the side.  
  
(All he caught was a flash of brilliant white and vivid blue— _a face he would recognize anywhere_ —in an expression both soft and sweet, just like the rest of them, _as if a painting could do it justice_. A stark sigh of relief escaped him—the knowledge that they were _here—_ and safe—but it would not be complete, not until the Vault's door was locked behind them.)  
  
But Elsa's was not the only new Memory Box to have entered their Vault; he saw Rapunzel's face, too, and Anna's, and a few more he didn't recognize... A wild mane of flaming red. A mousy brown mop with bright green eyes, and freckles, and two tiny braids at the back. Kristoff's, Jack noticed, was already in the Vault.  
  
He wondered how long it'd been there.  
  
“It's time,” Toothiana announced, from somewhere close behind him. Jack took one long, last look at the rows of gleaming gold— _his_ , amongst the Guardians, and _hers_ , in her own special place, close by—  
  
“Jack.”  
  
“Sorry,” he replied, distractedly, trying not to stumble as he turned to face her. She was waiting for him at the door, patient but not, and Jack didn't want to burden her any more than he already had.  
  
He didn't know how he would make it up to her—but he would. One day. He would.  
  
“Jack.”  
  
“Coming! Sorry—I. I'm coming.”

. * * * .  
  
And still, he couldn't resist one last, final peek.

. * * * .

He owed her a thousand _thank you_ 's, and more. By the time they made it back to the Palace, he'd gotten out about maybe a dozen of them, and then:

“So... Bunny got to you too, did he?” Jack whispered quietly, remembering the sight of the shorn locks of Rapunzel's brown hair, just before the gate closed shut. For a moment, Toothiana said nothing.  
  
“He arrived not long after you did,” she answered, soft and distant. She tried to smile, but it looked broken, and so did she. “Should have known,” she laughed, and Jack got the terrible feeling that she was trying not to cry. Jack was the worst kind of friend.  
  
He tried to smile back, but not even he could make it convincing; he wanted to beg for forgiveness, but didn't think himself deserving; he wanted to show her that it'd be all right, but he didn't know what to say; he wanted to promise that he'd never ask anything of her ever again— _but Jack had stopped making promises long ago_ —and even he knew, already, that it was a lie.

( _You could only say 'sorry' so many times before people stopped believing it._ )

“You two are rather alike... more than you'd like to believe,” Toothiana said softly, and Jack's heart stuttered at the sliver of genuine warmth in her eyes. He wanted to capture it, to keep it there. “It's probably why you fight so much.”  
  
( _You only make a mess of everything_.)  
  
“Excuse me,” she said, barely a whisper, and then Jack was left alone.

. * * * .

 


	85. - punny, right? -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/2/14_. One for today! Hopefully another one tomorrow or Sunday. My summer classes start on Monday so my free time is about to get a LOT sadder. D: Also, a huge thanks to all of the reviewers and commentors who have been spreading the love! :)
> 
> And I really, really like this chapter.

 

. * * * .  
  
- _punny, right?_ -  
  
. * * * . 

It wasn't until two weeks later that Bunnymund approached him.  
  
There wasn't even any particularly good reason for it either; no impending Guardian meetings, no real reason for their paths to cross, and _especially_ not in St. Petersburg, Russia. And it was peak busy season for _all_ of the Guardians, courtesy of two hoppin' months of commercialized cheer.  
  
But there Bunny was, on a nearby rooftop, and Jack withheld a sigh.  
  
He was really not in the mood.  
  
Realizing after a few moments that Bunny wasn't going to come to _him_ , Jack Frost rolled his eyes and leapt across the divide, gliding from one dome to the next. His hands found his pockets automatically, and the indifferent tilt to his head wasn't really intentional, but it came easily and naturally. Sort of like it used to be.  
  
Jack hated how it used to be.  
  
He stopped just short of him, giving a little shrug to loosen the stiffness in his shoulders. “Little early for spring, don't you think?”  
  
Brash and cocky; had he always sounded this petulant?  
  
Bunny was giving him a look that was both calculating and amused, which Jack was trying his very hardest not to get defensive about; he'd received it half a million times before, but today, it set him on edge. Apparently, it was a lot easier to believe that others were judging him when he was already doing a rather fine job of it, himself.  
  
Bunnymund's voice was quiet, and a little thoughtful, and he looked like he wanted to talk.  
  
“Never too early for spring, mate.”

. * * * .  


They were on some balcony of some old, run-down church or something, where not many people passed and none of them were children. The railing was sturdy though, and that was all Jack cared about.  
  
“This part doesn't ever really get easier,” Bunny warned quietly. “Thinking you've got a few more years of peace and quiet, and then something proves you wrong. Makes you appreciate the in-betweens.”  
  
Jack looked up at the skyline of buildings— _skyscrapers and spindles and spires_ —and watched a flock of birds fly by. They were awfully noisy.  
  
“So it's like you always say, then,” he answered. “About living in the moment or whatever.”  
  
“It is... but Hope is about looking to the future, too. It's a balance.”  
  
“Balance, shmalance.”  
  
He ignored the smirk Bunny was sending his way. It felt a little too patronizing for his liking.  
  
“How you doin'?”  
  
Jack titled his head to face him, keeping his expression blank and his eyes clouded. Bunny, for once, was pretty open, and it wasn't hard to pick up on the genuine curiosity there. (The _concern._ ) It made Jack want to throw it back in his face, sharp jabs and cutting words; it made it harder for Jack to look at him.  
  
“Y'know,” Jack replied breezily, shrugging for the simple sake of it. “Not too bad, considering. Worst nightmare's on the loose with a vendetta and some craziy bloodthirsty plan for anybody we care about, so. Fine.”  
  
Bunny sounded like he might laugh, actually, so Jack kept his eyes turned away. He wasn't entirely sure what it was about this whole exchange that was making him so uncomfortable—they'd _had_ fights before. And they'd been easily forgotten, more or less— _Easter of '68, notwithstanding_ —and Bunny must have noticed the shift. This was a little different.  
  
 _Jack_ was a little different.  
  
“He's not gonna get them,” Bunny said quietly, no need for names. “You know that, right?”  
  
 _I know that._  
  
Jack didn't say anything at first. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and pushed down the darkness, and searched for an answer—something that was light and simple. Maybe something witty—something that _wouldn't_ alert Bunny to the bitterness cracking inside his chest. He was quiet for a few long minutes, wracking his brain, but here wasn't much he could say that wouldn't end up feeling like a lie.  
  
Except.  
  
“Uh... Look,” Jack elegantly began. “I wasn't gonna apologize before, because you were kinda being a dick, too, but. Sorry about the eggnog, or whatever.” After a moment, he tacked on, “I guess it really was sorta uncalled for, now that I think about it.”  
  
“You— _think_?”  
  
“Dude, that's the best apology you're gonna get.”  
  
“Oh, believe me—I'm aware,” Bunny muttered sourly. “Especially since the only reason I even brought up your little Queen Momma crush in the first place was to help _your_ sorry hide.”  
  
“ _Dude_ , I said I'm sorry.”  
  
“Yeah? _Well_ —shit. I am, too,” Bunny huffed, grouchy as ever, and Jack's head whipped round toward his, in unparalleled surprise. “I ain't sorry for keepin' you in line—because _someone's_ got to—but. Yeah. My teasin' was a little too much, I reckon.” Jack was smiling before he'd even realized what he'd done. “What?” Bunny snapped, harsh and defensive, and Jack only smirked wider. (Was it worth it to try and argue again? That his thing for the Queen was pretty much fading out, anyway?)  
  
 _Nah._ Bunny could think what he wanted. (Besides. Although his feelings towards the Queen _had_ shifted over the last few months, he'd be lying if he said he still didn't feel all stupidly flustered whenever they crossed paths in the corridors, or that he wasn't grateful for how Elsa had gradually taken to sorta pretending like her mother didn't really exist, or that she wasn't still smokin' hot, especially for a woman of her age with two children and _aw, shit, this is awkward_.)  
  
“Things have gotten pretty messed up,” Jack said quietly, feeling the weight of the gray sky settle onto his shoulders. The air felt quiet in a way it hadn't a moment before. “Haven't they?”  
  
Bunny must have felt it, too, even if he didn't acknowledge it the way Jack did. Bunny shifted uncomfortably beside him and dubiously replied, “That'd better not be some sort of remark on the Eggnog Incident.”  
  
“And if it were? You seem like you'd appreciate that sort of thing. You're punny, right?”  
  
“Kid, you ever use that awful pun again, and I'll kill ya.”  
  
Jack smiled, wry and close-lipped. “Too late,” he glanced up at him, snark mostly gone, and marveled at how badly this used to hurt, and how it didn't— _not so much_ —anymore. “A pond beat you to it.”  
  
“The hell it did. You just try that pun one more time, Frost, and we'll see how dead you really are.”  
  
And the weird thing was—  
  
It helped.

. * * * .

“You tell her yet?”  
  
Jack paused, then slowly shook his head. Bunny made a soft sound of something—disbelief, maybe, or probably disapproval—then said, “Jack, you oughtta tell her. If you're stickin' around Arendelle this much, she's gotta know what's out there.”  
  
“You tell Rapunzel?”  
  
Bunny gave him a look, dry exasperation and impatience like, _Seriously? You're gonna pull the special card?_  
  
 _“Rapunzel_ doesn't Believe anymore,” Bunny answered stiffly. “Elsa does, and she's going to catch on sooner or later.”  
  
( _Later_ , Jack's mind whispered. _Always later_.)  
  
He shook his head, stamping down his stupid thoughts, and rolled his eyes at Bunny because _dammit_ , he was at _least_ half as frustrated as Bunny was.  
  
“I don't see why I have to,” Jack argued.  
  
“I didn't say you _hafta_ do _anything_ ; I said you ought to. If you're gonna be showin' up on her doorstep like the hot mess that you are—”  
  
“ _Shit_ , you just made a pun! A _really_ terrible one!”  
  
“—then Elsa should know what kinds of shit's out there. But what do I know?” Bunny huffed. “Not like I've been a Guardian for half a millennium, or anything. Just two my cents.”  
  
“Great,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Let me get my change purse.”  
  
“Yeah, bloody philosopher that you are, I bet you got yourself a whole barrel of pennies in there.”  
  
Bunny stiffened when Jack went quiet. “What?” he demanded, sounding alarmed. “What did I say?”  
  
Jack shook himself, clearing his head. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “You just—that's something Elsa says, all the time. Or teases me about, more like.”  
  
“What? Having pennies?”  
  
“No—having thoughts.”  
  
“Well, yeah, I'd tease you about that, too.”  
  
“ _No—_ having thoughts that are _worth_ something,” Jack snapped, mouth scrunching downward.  
  
“Worth a _penny_?”  
  
Jack rolled his eyes, ignoring Bunny's sarcasm. “Or so the saying goes,” he muttered, dropping his chin onto his knee.  
  
Bunny was quiet for a minute. “You know, out of all the languages, English has always been one of the strangest to me. You give two cents to _give_ a thought, and give a penny to _get_ one? What kinds of fecked up expressions are these?”  
  
“I dunno. I like 'em,” Jack muttered, mostly just to be difficult, but then decided that it was sort of true, once he thought about it. “I think it says something that you have to pay more to do the talking, and it doesn't cost as much to listen.”  
  
“Well, look at you,” Bunny said archly, and Jack bit down a half-annoyed, half-embarrassed smile-grimace when Bunny nearly pushed him off the railing. “I'd say that cost me at least a penny, right there.”  
  
“Unless you wanna go flying off this balcony and take a dip in the nearest lake, shut _up_.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? Well, put your money where your mouth is, kid.”  
  
Jack didn't even know what the hell they were talking about anymore, but it sure felt a hell of a lot better than when they weren't; he'd had a little taste of both over the last few months, and Jack decided that he much preferred it this way.  
  
He was pretty sure Bunny agreed with him.

. * * * .

“You know I'm serious about the Pitch thing, right?”  
  
Jack considered Bunny's warning for a long moment, hard and thorough.  
  
“I do,” he answered quietly, trying his hand at serious. “But there's something that you're forgetting.”  
  
Bunny's brow arched high, curious and doubtful and intrigued. “Oh?”  
  
Jack took a moment to sort through his words.  
  
“How do any of us retain our Guardianship?” Jack asked, watching Bunny's face carefully. “Like—what's the source of our powers?”  
  
“Are you asking me, or leading up to something?”  
  
“Just answer.”  
  
Bunny paused. “The Belief, obviously,” he said quietly. “Children Believing.”  
  
Jack took a deep breath, long and deep, and said, “And how do children get to that point? Where they start Believing in us?”  
  
Bunny's expression shifted, minutely and imperceptibly, but Jack could tell the precise moment that it faltered. With a sigh, Bunny nodded twice, reluctantly. “Storytelling,” he mumbled.  
  
Jack held onto that, let it sink in.  
  
 _Storytelling_.  
  
“If Pitch gets his power from the Belief of children, and feeds off of their Fear, then the last thing I want to do is go spreadin' it around,” Jack declared, quiet with conviction. “He won't be getting' any more power from _me.”_  
  
( _Not again_.)  
  
“Her Memories are safe now, so if Elsa's gonna learn about the Boogeyman—and she _might_ ,” Jack swallowed, cleared his throat, “Then it will be from North's journals. Or, I dunno—something in the library. I'm not gonna be the one to open that door.”  
  
Bunny looked at Jack, and Jack looked back, unwavering and steady, and he could have been imagining it... but it almost looked like, _maybe_ , Bunny might have been a tiny bit impressed.   
  
Admiration wasn't usually in Bunny's range of expression, and Jack didn't know what to make of it.  
  
“All right,” Bunny whispered, and that was that. “Fair enough.”

. * * * .

 


	86. - such mercy -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/4/14_. Hello, all! :) Thanks for the wait. This chapter was actually supposed to be four separate drabble-chapters, but I like them better together. :) :) There's one more bit to this particular scene, but I decided to wait and post it separately. (If you'd like a preview, keep an eye out for the Six Sentence Sunday post on my tumblr!) 
> 
> Also, if you are unfamiliar with the second game mentioned in this chapter, there is a link in the End Notes that will take you to a description! I'm not sure how familiar people are with this game and its name, so JUST IN CASE. <3 <3
> 
> ALSO ALSO ALSO, check out this incredible _at the center_ fanart! ([x](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84638027287/this-one-was-from-yesterday-more-jelsa-from-at)) ([x](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84636008272/a-simple-sketch-to-fuel-my-friends-jelsa)) ([x](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84741596922/it-may-be-a-daily-thing-i-am-not-sure-more)) ([x](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com/post/78037377429/this-is-a-little-fanart-i-made-yesterday-based-on)) Thank you so much, **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** & **[rcfontana](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com)**!
> 
> Summer classes start tomorrow! ~~We'll see how writing 100,000+ words of Jelsa will affect my ability to compose an academic essay...~~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- such mercy -_  
  
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. _December_ .  
  
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If there was one inherent quality of Elsa's that probably  
could have done without his influence—

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“Y'know, I'm beginning to think these victories are lookin' a little unbalanced...”  
  
“ _Hush_. It's not my fault you have such unnaturally strong thumbs.”  
  
“ _What?_ So it's mine?”  
  
“ _One more word_ , Jack, and—we return to— _chess_.”

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—it was competitiveness.

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. * * * .

 

Eight rounds in, and still nothing; Elsa gave it her all, but she was obviously no match for the dexterity of Jack Frost. What had started out as a gentle nudge of his fingers toward hers had shifted into a game, and had since spiraled into a thorough instruction regarding the honorable and majestic sport of thumb-wrestling. A grand tournament, of sorts, had followed, in which Jack actually spent more time reminding Elsa to keep her elbow glued to the flat of the window sill—(“That is _cheating_ , Your Majesty.”)—and laughing at the way she tensed and glared at his hands like it would make any sort of difference. He especially liked to occasionally let himself fall victim... only to free himself from her grasp at the final second. (It didn't take her long to catch onto his teasing; her vigor renewed, twofold.) When it came down to it, Jack unsurprisingly spent more time watching her reactions, rather than actually playing.  
  
(And hey—he kept winning, anyway, so where was the harm?)  
  
Next was Slapjack, and no, Elsa, he had not been the one to name it, and _no_ , Bunny did not invent it, and _no_ , North didn't come up with it either and _seriously, are we gonna keep talking slapping me or are we actually gonna do it?_  
  
Red hands, slapsies, red tomato, and—the most amusing— _hot_ hands; for as many names as the game had claimed, Elsa had never heard of it. Jack was not surprised, but feigned horrendous shock anyways, and made a big show of taking her hands in his. He grinned as he shook them—purportedly to loosen them up—and then held them out between them, palms facing the ceiling. And then—very, very carefully—Jack placed his hands directly over hers, barely touching, but close enough to feel her warmth. He explained the rules very slowly, making sure to gently demonstrate the offensive and defensive turns, and _remember, if you're on top and you flinch too much—I get a free shot_ .  
  
“And vice versa?”  
  
Jack blinked, his hands still hovering over hers. “What?”  
  
“And vice versa?” Elsa repeated, eyes bright. “If I feint a strike from below and you flinch—then I am allowed to strike freely?”  
  
Jack stared long and hard, but no matter how carefully he looked, he wasn't quite able to reconcile the sweet innocence of her voice with the vengeful gleam in her eyes.  
  
This was going to hurt.  
  
“ _If_ I flinch,” he reminded her, pointedly, and ignored the shriek of warning crying through his gut. ( _Shit._ ) “Which I won't.”  
  
Elsa only smiled.  
  
“Of course not.”

. * * * .

He'd thought that she'd be more hesitant at first, but after fourteen losses at thumb-wrestling, he guessed he couldn't really blame her, and why, oh _why_ , did he decide to be a decent gentleman-Guardian and let her go on the offensive _first?_

Once his hands had achieved some weird purplish color, Jack Frost finally admitted defeat. His poor cold-blooded skin could only withstand so much torture at once.  
  
“I rather like this game, Jack.”  
  
“Yeah... I can _see_ that.”  
  
The took a break after that, worn out from too much laughter and suspense and heightened adrenaline, so they lounged at the window seat and looked at the stars, watching the sky for a sleigh. Jack's feet would nudge her side occasionally, so she stuffed a pillow over them, which very quickly led to a War of Pillows that neither of them had ever actually declared, in spite of their so-called agreed-upon ceasefire. Elsa and Jack collapsed back against their respective walls sometime later, breathless with laughter, and curled up against the chill of the window, finally at rest, at long last.  
  
It wasn't quiet, what with their low conversation and the soughs of the sea, but Jack got a lot of thinking done while they waited anyway.  
  
He'd lost count of the number of times he'd lost or earned himself a penalty-strike with his blasted flinching. (“I am a _jumpy_ sort of person, _okay_?”) He'd gotten his turn, of course—er, _every so often_ —but in the grand scheme of it all, his pitiful attempts at victory hardly mattered.  
  
Jack was well aware that he could have pretended that he'd been losing on purpose, taking the brunt of the hits as some recompense for his landslide victories at the Battle of the Thumbs, or even claimed the especially noble justification that he was simply taking care not to hurt her... but neither of them would have believed it. Competitiveness didn't allow for such mercy.  
  
And the truth of the matter was, whenever it was Jack's turn to slap, more often than not, he ended up accidentally grabbing her hands, anyway. ( _“Jack!_ You're not supposed to _hold onto_ them!”)  
  
It just seemed like the right thing to do.

. * * * .

Elsa was beginning to doze off, which made Jack nervous.  
  
“Elsa,” he whispered, nudging her shoulder. “ _Elsa._ ”  
  
She murmured something in her drowsiness, half-hidden behind bleary eyes. He was trying very hard not to pout when she blinked up at him. “Is North here yet?” she asked him softly.  
  
 _Ha._ _I would have let you keep sleeping if he were_ . “Not yet. It's still early,” he answered quietly, just before the truth of his words hit him. He eyed her suspiciously. “It's still early,” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you so tired?”  
  
As if on cue, she yawned, politely covering her mouth with a delicate hand. He stared at it accusingly, which made her laugh mid-way, and then her yawn wasn't quite so polite anymore. Jack was irrationally proud, until, “I haven't been sleeping very well.”  
  
 _Haven't been—?_  
  
Her eyes widened when he leaned closer, but Jack couldn't help it; his gaze roved over her face— _no dark circles beneath beneath her eyes_ —and her neck— _no scratches, no nothing out of the ordinary_ —and he only realized how stiffly she was sitting when his eyes returned to hers. _Uhh._  
  
“What do you mean?” he asked quickly, too hesitant to move away; he might have overreacted, maybe, so now he had to back it up. (Figuratively. Not literally. _Ah_ —) “How much sleep? What kinds of nightmares—for how long? Why didn't you say something?”  
  
He thought she might get mad at him for babbling, but after a long, frozen moment, Elsa merely laughed again, pressed the flat of her palm to his face, and casually moved him to the side. He let out a less-than-dignified noise as his elbow collided with the windowsill, but his hand caught the pillow at her hip, and it was hardly a moment before he'd snatched it from its home and had planted himself in its place. It wasn't quite as comfortable— _this_ , the both of them sitting on the same side of the bench—at least, not as comfortable as it used to be, like, when Elsa was only seven-years-old, and Jack _hated_ thinking like that, but it was sort of hard to ignore at the moment, because he was hellbent on getting to the bottom of this and he refused to move and the bench seat had always been rather narrow and Elsa's hips had widened considerably over the years and _holy_ mother of frost—  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” Elsa's eyes narrowed, and that was _it—_ she knew it. She knew that he'd just been thinking that her hips were big. Oh god. He was going to die. She was gonna kill him, and he'd have no excuse, not a single one— “I didn't tell you because you had things of your own to worry about. You were busy.”  
  
Jack blanched, appalled. “That's a fucking terrible excuse,” he argued, and he banged his elbow into the glass in his haste to twist toward her, which was _such_ an uncomfortable position, because his long, gangly legs were still lengthened out alongside hers, and yet he was trying to face her, and he actually had to brace himself against the wall to keep himself all twisted up— “And I'm never busy!”  
  
“Jack. You are always busy.”  
  
“I'm—well, you still should've—you're supposed to be able to _tell_ me these things, you know? _Damn_ , like—you think I wouldn't want to know about you having _nightmares_?”  
  
He really wasn't expecting it, when Elsa took a moment to look up at him— _tangled up spider-monkey that he was_ —all patient exasperation and challenging brow, and say, “Who said I was having nightmares?”  
  
Jack's mouth opened, then closed.  
  
“Ergh,” he said, brilliantly. “Well... aren't you?”  
  
Elsa slowly shook her head. She was laughing at him with her eyes.  
  
Jack deflated immediately, and almost literally; his temple crashed into the wall by her shoulder with careless abandon. The stiff arms that'd kept him all pinned up against the wall loosened into gelatinous noodles at his sides, and then Elsa was laughing outright at the melodrama, he was sure, but then her hand was on his face, lifting his cheek so he could look at her— _when had his eyes closed?_ —and the awkward, almost-painful angle of his neck straightened out under the guidance of her fingers, but all Jack could do was scowl.  
  
“You are very sweet,” Elsa teased him, still laughing. Jack glared up at her, thinking of all the ways he could covertly convince her to keep her hands on his face, and then, just like that, her touch was gone; while he'd been plotting how to keep there, she'd slipped a long pillow under his neck, nearly without his notice. It felt a little better, he had to admit, but not quite as good as when she propped up his head, herself.  
  
“So why're you having trouble sleeping, then?” he asked, curiosity still just as piqued as ever. “Is it too hot? I'm sure the servants wouldn't say anything, if you put out the fire every night... or maybe, if you wanted to, I'm sure you could put it out before you went to bed and then start it back up again in the morning, before anyone else woke up. You might have to mess with the coals a little bit, to make it look like they were being used up, but I'm sure you can think up some way to—”  
  
“No,” Elsa told him, breathless with laughter, though Jack didn't see what the hell was so funny. “No, it's nothing like that. The window is plenty cold enough, and besides—I don't actually mind the warmth.”  
  
Jack stared at her, replaying the words in his head. “You don't?” he repeated dubiously.  
  
Elsa shrugged, which made Jack acutely aware of just how twisted up he'd become, for the movement of her shoulder dug into his chest, directly over his heart. “Not really,” she answered, thoughtfully. “I prefer the cold, but I can appreciate a little warmth.”  
  
Imperceptibly, Jack's cold fingers twitched where they laid; he was frowning without realizing it, unsure as to why something like this might bother him. After all—he'd always felt the same way.  
  
“So, what is it, then?” Jack demanded, a bit more sharply than he'd intended, but he was getting impatient. “You're not having nightmares, and you don't mind sleeping in front of a fire, so—what? Too busy reading? Too many philosophers' journals to annotate?”  
  
Elsa looked down at him like she knew exactly what he was doing, and by no long stretch of the imagination did Jack come to the conclusion that she most certainly did; he might have felt properly chastised, had he not just decided not to care.  
  
“Well... now that you mention it,” Elsa replied slowly, putting on a thoughtful air specifically for his childish benefit. “Bunny _did_ just loan me Machiavelli's _The Prince_.”  
  
Jack didn't know who the hell the Prince was, or what a Machiavelli was, but what he _did_ catch—  
  
“What the hell was Bunny doing here?”  
  
“He was delivering a few books that we'd talked about during his previous visit. He ate the carrots I was saving for North's reindeer, but I don't think they'll mind too much.”  
  
“ _What—_ so he came—he came _recently_?”  
  
“Just yesterday.”  
  
“ _Son_ of a—”  
  
“Jack. _Frost._ I already tolerate so much of your language as it is already. Do _not_ push your luck.”  
  
Still wincing, Jack burrowed his back deeper against the wall, and twisted himself completely onto his side. His neck was starting to hurt. “So, what—Tooth and Sandy visit you, too?” he asked, and if he sounded a little like he was whining, then so what? He probably was.  
  
(Actually. He should probably stop that.  
  
 _Shit_.)  
  
Jack watched Elsa's play with her hands in her lap.  
  
“I've never met Sandy,” Elsa said thoughtfully. “I may have dreamed about him, once or twice, when I was younger, but I don't know how well I would be able to stay awake in his presence. And I haven't seen Toothiana in years. I only met her just the once.”  
  
 _Ah._ This was a topic that should have been avoided.  
  
Jack cleared his throat, shoving the uncomfortable thoughts down. ( _She's a Guardian. She'll live forever. She cares about you. She's really beautiful—actually, like, supremely beautiful—in a really unique way. She'll live forever. She likes you, even though you're a mess. She'll live forever. She'll—_ ) This dilemma was clearly something he didn't want to discuss with anyone just yet—not with _anyone_ . He needed to sort through some stuff before he could ask anyone else to help navigate his feelings, which— _Ha!  
  
Good luck.  
  
_ He'd probably end up talking to Elsa about it— _later—_ because she'd be just as logical about it as Bunnymund, but a little gentler about his stupidity. Hopefully.  
  
“Yeah,” he muttered with a shrug of his shoulders—which turned out to be a terrible idea, because— _oh, yeah—_ he was leaning on one. He adjusted himself over the mountain of pillows they'd constructed, trying to avoid anything that resulted in sharp, jabbing pain, and casually dropped, “She's been pretty busy these last few years.”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“What?” Jack stilled, staring up at her.  
  
“Have you—actually?” she asked him, in all of her subtle, royal impudence. “Been busy?”  
  
( _Tooth will live forever_.  
  
 _And so will you._ )  
  
Jack laughed sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “I am always busy,” he muttered dryly, more honest than he would've liked. “Those snowballs won't roll themselves, you know.”  
  
Little by little, Elsa settled deeper against the mountain of scratchy pillows. The dark navy blue of her robe looked very soft, but it probably wasn't much help against the unforgiving flat of the wall, or the terribly uncomfortable decorative throw cushions beneath them. Jack considered offering her the pillow she'd given him—most of the good ones had at some point ended up far away on the floor—when she quietly asked him, “Do you ever get tired?”  
  
 _All the time_ . “Not so much,” Jack answered, and somehow, it was still the truth. “The responsibilities are pretty heavy, but I... I sorta knew that going in.” Jack paused before adding, “I think I... convinced myself for a while that I didn't want anything like this—being a Guardian, or something, in the beginning, but... it's better to be this busy all the time, I guess. It wasn't always like this. And at least now I'm actually doing something—so.” Jack coughed, snapping his mouth shut.  
  
( _Never could quit while you were ahead—could ya?_ )  
  
Elsa considered this for a moment. Slowly, she lowered her shoulders down the wall and laid herself back along the mountain of scratchy throw pillows. She was still a tiny bit higher up than him—just enough that he had to twist his head to look at her—but at least she looked more comfortable now. Her bare feet slipped beneath the tent of her nightgown.  
  
“What was it like?” she asked, and her voice was very, very quiet.  
  
( _Easy,_ said a voice, thick with bitterness. _It was hell_.)  
  
Jack laughed again, more of a habit than anything else—and one that he wasn't so sure he wanted to break. Elsa looked down at him, soft and puzzled and concerned, and he dragged a hand down his face and reminded himself, _S_ _tupid, you're supposed to be the Guardian here._  
  
“It's still not really easy to think about,” Jack answered, wishing that he had something to fiddle with in his hands. His legs kept twitching, and his stomach was in knots, and breathing didn't really seem to be worth it, at this point. “Especially now that I know what it feels like to have people believe in me.”  
  
Jack tried not to flinch too much when Elsa shifted down the final inch, aligning her shoulders with his; his mind had caught on a particularly brutal Memory, useless and obsolete but wrenching all the same.

  
(“ _He can see us?”  
  
Jack could look back on that moment now,  
that false hope and happy disbelief as they stood at the foot of Jamie's bed,  
with something like farewell. That part of his existence—his nonexistence—was over.  
  
But the pain was still fresh, the Memory still crisp,  
and the voice in his head, still clear, when Bunnymund reluctantly replied,  
  
“Most of us.”  
  
Even the flashlight had gone right through him. _ )

 

“Jack?”

He tilted his head to the side, surprised to find her so close. Her bangs were getting a little too long. She would probably cut them the next day.  
  
“Are you still tired?” he asked her, searching for any signs. At some point his fingers had laced themselves together over his stomach; Elsa, amusingly, had done the same with her own. The only difference was that she somehow managed to make it look poised and graceful, even in nightclothes, whereas Jack just felt like a pile of awkward, lanky limbs. He withheld his laughter this time, settling for a smile.  
  
Jack Frost let her think about her answer, as usual. “A little,” she replied, and didn't look too pleased with her answer.  
  
His smile widened into something more natural. “Just sleep, then,” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders against hers. “I'm sure you won't actually want any of those chocolates, anyway.”  
  
“ _Jack_.”  
  
“What? I can't help myself. You know that.”  
  
“Don't _you_ need sleep, too?” she asked him, struck by curiosity, chocolate forgotten.  
  
“Guardians don't really _need_ sleep,” Jack answered, teetering on the brink of arrogance. _And neither should you—not yet_ . “Not unless Sandy uses his dust to lull us there. I've only seen the Guardians conked out once, and that was totally by accident. I'm still mad I didn't have a camera.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
“Uh. It's like a— _egh._ Nothin'. Forget it. It was just super embarrassing for Bunny, so it was _obviously_ great for me. And it was even better because it was right after he'd ended up getting sicked by a family's greyhound.” _Ah_. The one silver lining to an otherwise terrible Memory. “Completely destroyed whatever veneer of badassery he'd tried to coat on.”  
  
“You never used to curse this _much.”_  
  
 _Ah..._ Hadn't he?  
  
Well. Covering up his embarrassment with false bravado and sarcasm usually worked, so: “I was hoping you'd be too distracted by my use of the word _veneer_ to notice.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I'm very impressed. Imagine what wonders that mouth could do with a whole dictionary.”  
  
Absurdly, his stomach flipped. “The point _is—_ the point. The _point,_ is that—it was pretty great, okay? Little sand-carrots bopping around and doing martial arts with North's sandy canes. It was spectacular, and— _what?_ What are you thinking so hard about?”  
  
Elsa blinked quickly, perhaps not even aware of the impish smile on her lips. Her eyes were very warm, and he liked the glow on her cheeks, but she looked like she'd just discovered something wonderful at his expense, and he had a right to know about it.  
  
“Do you dream too, then?” she asked him, very quietly.  
  
Jack's mouth went inconveniently dry.  
  
( _Well, there's been a few times I've sat in a tree and jacked off to the thought of that one time your mother—_ ) “Um.”  
  
Elsa laughed, soft and bright, and Jack struggled to breathe. And glare. _You wouldn't be laughing if you knew what kinds of fucked up fantasies I've really had_ , he thought, wincing, and swallowed down the rock that had been cutting up his throat.  
  
( _But really_ , whispered a tiny voice in the back of Jack's mind, curious and intrigued. _What_ would _she think?_ )

  
( _She probably wouldn't want anything to do with you, you sick bastard_.  
  
And _that_ voice, was purely Jack's, all his own.)

“Do you dream at all?” Elsa asked him, laughter subsiding. Her voice had gone quiet again, and _dammit_ , he and his fucking face were just as terrible at hiding shit as they'd always been. Sort of. When he wasn't prepared for it. ( _When it's got nothing to do with Pitch fucking Black_.)  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
Jack swallowed roughly. “A little,” he answered, still trying to dispel the image of a high branch in a tall tree in a nearby forest. “Daydream, mostly.”  
  
They were quiet, then, and Jack was grateful.  
  
“You know,” Elsa whispered after a few long minutes of silence. He was certain that she would try to ask him again, what he dreamed about—he'd been preparing for it the entire time, never mind the fact that he still had no idea what he could say—but apparently, she'd already moved on. “If you wanted to be a _truly_ decent Guardian, you would allow me a nap.”  
  
Jack's wry smile was already halfway to a grimace. “Yeah, see? I'm not that kind of Guardian,” he answered easily, scoff and all. “I'm too selfish for that.”  
  
“Is that so?” Elsa said quietly, smiling. “Well, I'm afraid I have to disagree.”  
  
Jack twisted his head to face her more fully, brows raised high. There was a warm patter in his chest, something that curled suspiciously like anticipation. (If there was one thing Jack never got tired of—it was hearing Elsa talk about him. Especially good things.) But the true nature of her argument had yet to be seen, and Elsa had been _particularly_ vengeful that evening, so he tried not to look too interested—really, he did—when he evenly remarked, almost to the point of debate, “Is that so? On what grounds?”  
  
Elsa rolled her eyes— _another habit not easily broken_ —but her gaze didn't return to his. Instead, her sight veered right past, out toward the night sky and stars. He watched her expression, waiting for the punchline— _maybe_ literally, because hell, _you never know—_ but Elsa was deathly serious when she looked to where the Moon should have been, and sighed.  
  
“You were chosen to be a Guardian,” she whispered, like it explained everything. With such _trust_. “Think of all that you've done, Jack... I'm sure you're not as selfish as you think.”  
  
Jack stared at her, watching as she watched the night sky. Her face was very beautiful— _fine features and stark contrast, vibrant colors and sweetness_ —and it wasn't hard to imagine what it looked like painted on a little golden box... locked away in a cave meant for Guardians alone.

(“ _Jack... think of what you're asking me to do._ ”)

“You don't know how selfish I am,” Jack Frost whispered, long after Elsa had fallen asleep.

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(“ _I suppose we are both sore losers,_ ” she'd laughed, massaging her battered hands;  
small circles and gentle strokes, and it looked like it felt nice—  
  
—especially since they were no longer trying to attack him.  
  
“ _Aren't we, Jack?_ ”)

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. * * * .  
  
And, like everything else,  
Jack committed the whole scene to Memory.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen them already, please check out these incredible _at the center_ doodles! ([x](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84638027287/this-one-was-from-yesterday-more-jelsa-from-at)) ([x](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84636008272/a-simple-sketch-to-fuel-my-friends-jelsa)) ([x](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/84741596922/it-may-be-a-daily-thing-i-am-not-sure-more)) ([x](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com/post/78037377429/this-is-a-little-fanart-i-made-yesterday-based-on)) Thank you so much, **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** & **[rcfontana](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com)**!
> 
> Aaaaaaaaaaand [Slapjack](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_hands)!


	87. - fall asleep -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/9/14_. A huge thank you to **SOCKSSSSS** and **AHLISTENALISON** for the beta reads!
> 
> And another HUGE thanks to **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** for even more of her adorably gorgeous _at the center_ doodles! ([x](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/85083164427/chickensaredoodling-more-jelsa-for-you-guys)) ([x](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/85082466572/chickensaredoodling-ah-here-you-guys-go-for)) ([x](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/85261026302/chickensaredoodling-this-was-a-scene-from-at))
> 
> They're all beautiful. ;___________;

 

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _fall asleep_ -  
  
. * * * .

Jack was woken by the sounds of sleigh bells.

There was a sharp rapping sound on the rooftop— _hooves, no doubt_ —and a loud pounding in his ears— _his_ _heart_?—and his hand was clutching at the windowsill above, and his head was tilted uncomfortably against the wall. His eyes had opened, but nothing made sense, and again—  
  
When had they _closed_?  
  
He was still on the bench, atop the uneven mound of pillows and throw cushions, and he couldn't move his arm. His breathing was all over the place—more out of instinct than necessity—and that was when Jack realized that something was pinning down his shoulder.  
  
It was Elsa.  
  
Jack blinked down at the crown of blonde hair just below his chin, staring but not quite seeing. This was most certainly not the way he remembered things before he... Before...  
  
( _Did you—did you just fall asleep?_ )  
  
Her cheek was warm where it rested against his hoodie—must have shifted there, when neither of them were paying attention—and even after all the jostling he must have just given her, her head was still nestled comfortably against this shoulder. Or so it seemed. _Better to wake her up, though, just in case_.  
  
North was coming, anyway.  
  
Jack carefully slipped himself out from underneath her, and gently nudged her awake.  
  
Their guest arrived not more than a minute later by way of chimney, which delighted Elsa just as much as ever; Jack had to admit that it never actually got old, even if it _did_ get a little annoying.  
  
“ELSA!” boomed a voice, jolly and joyful, and Jack immediately went to retrieve the plate of cookies from the desk, in the hopes that a full mouth would entice him to be quieter. (Supposedly.) Even with his back turned, Jack had no trouble with hearing.  
  
“My dear, little Elsa—look how you've _grown_!”  
  
Jack rolled his eyes as his fingers caught the edges of the fancy plate, and he pivoted on his heel. Elsa's hands were encased in North's large, pink ones, and she looked suspiciously out of breath—like someone had just spun her around too quickly. Scowling, Jack marched the plate of cookies over to where they stood, and thrust them out towards North. “Bunny ate your reindeers' carrots.”  
  
“ _Jack!_ ”  
  
North only laughed, loud and genuine, with both hands on his belly—true to form. “I expect no less from a Pooka! And what of my milk? You did not freeze it this year, no?”  
  
Whoops. He'd left that on the desk. “Don't worry—your milk is safe,” Jack replied with a sigh, but when he turned to point it out—the big guy could get it himself—Elsa was already there, ready to serve. Jack frowned as Elsa brought it forward with a smile. “I'm a little beyond milk-freezing these days,” he added dryly.  
  
“Ho, _ho!_ Beyond the freezing of Santa Claus' milk, you say? Then you have graduated to more devious freezes? I cannot think of anything so devious as the freezing of my milk.”  
  
“Careful, North—he might go for your beard next,” Elsa whispered conspiratorially, to which they both broke out in uproarious giggles. Jack was less amused, then wondered why.  
  
Slapping on a tell-tale grin, Jack casually warned, “I might,” and slyly eased closer to Elsa's side, crossing his arms.  
  
“Of course!” North played along. “Nothing more devious in the world—and I have the coal! To prove it! The surest way to reserve place on Naughty List for all eternity.”  
  
“You mean I haven't already?”  
  
“Close! In fact— _so close_. I am sure you will mark spot for next year, no question,” North promised generously, glancing between the two of them. Elsa looked like she was jumping at the bit to say something, but was carefully minding her tongue. Jack smirked at the sight, and completely lost track of everything North was saying, right up until something about— “Not like the water parks you liked to freeze, no? Eh?”  
  
Jack would have paled, if he could have.  
  
 _Dammit._ He knew that would come back to bite him, one day.  
  
“Water parks?” came Elsa's voice, curious and confused. _Okay, Jack—play it cool._  
  
“It's nothing,” he blurted, which was pretty much _the complete_ opposite _of playing it cool, you slick bastard._  
  
“Nothing, eh?” North stroked his beard, then muttered, “Tell that to Six Flags New England.”  
  
“ _Look—_ I only did that for like, _two_ summers! And only at the start of the season!”  
  
“Parks of water with flags?” Elsa repeated, with awe and interest and concern. Emphasis on the concern. _“Jack—_ did you freeze a country's _water_ supply?”  
  
“What? _No!_ ”  
  
North's resulting howl of laughter signaled that it was time for presents. Jack nearly sighed with relief at the sight of North's ginormous sack falling to the floor a their feet, but knew that he'd have to find a moment to explain himself to Elsa later; he was pretty damn proud of some of his more impressive accomplishments, and there were plenty—but that didn't mean he wanted Elsa to _know_ about them.  
  
Not certain ones, at least. (And especially not if _he_ wasn't the one spinning the tale.)  
  
North was especially generous this year, to the point of raised eyebrows and knowing grins; Jack had a not-so-sneaking suspicion that North loved to spoil Elsa, because there were definitely things in these prettily-wrapped boxes that went against the whole _Do Not Cross Realms_ rulebook. Scented candles? Notepads with grid-lined paper? _Spiral_ notebooks? Maps of Australia and India— _Canada_ and Russia? Malaysia?  
  
Seriously? Someone was going to _see_ this.  
  
Like every year, there were piles of books, and this Christmas Elsa received enough to fill a whole shelf. There were some in the Old Language and a few in the New, and even a few tales magicked into modern day English, and _is that... is that—?_  
  
“I'm studying your modern French and Italian, now,” Elsa explained, catching Jack's eye. “The poetry is divine.”  
 _  
_And, of course, four pounds of chocolate.  
  
“Ah. Wonderful. I'll be taking care of _that_ , thank—”  
  
 _“Lower_ the chocolate box, Jack Frost, or lose a hand.”  
  
There may or may not have been a game of Keep-Away that followed—because they were working on her _skills_ , that's why—and he honestly considered this a huge testament to his character, that he didn't simply fly off with them. (And Elsa could have simply _asked_ for them at any time, perfectly-polite princess that she was, but hey—if she wanted to scramble and skirmish up his shoulder and reach for them, then that was totally fine by him.) Their laughter was interrupted by North's quiet chuckling.

“At least you shall never be at a loss for what to present Miss Elsa at Christmas!” he pointed out gleefully.  
  
The chocolate box froze, suspended in mid-air, as did the hand that reached for it. He could vaguely sense when Elsa turned her face toward North—hand still ready to snatch—and she laughed, “North! Jack and I don't exchange gifts on Christmas!”  
  
Jack stood still, unmoving.  
  
He'd never even considered it.  
  
“Ah! It is better, this way!” North clapped a sturdy hand onto Jack's back, enough to make him cough. The chocolate box came down easily after that, quick and graceless, and Elsa carefully slipped the box from his grasp with a friendly smile. Jack looked at her in a daze, and a jolly voice, off to the side: “No special treatment—am I right?”  
  
North's laughter could have shaken down the whole damn castle.

. * * * .

Slightly awkward exchanges aside, Jack was actually pretty happy that North showed up, as expected; their interactions since the resurfacing of Pitch had been pretty limited, confined to the occasional meeting and whatnot, but North was a master at separating his Guardian concerns with—well. Everything else. (Which was pretty much just Christmas, to North.) It was nice to see North acting more like himself again—the _jolly_ self, that was—but it was more than that, too. It was a much-needed reminder of just how lucky he was.  
  
How uniquely, impossibly lucky.  
  
“Oh! This is Anna's favorite kind. She always loves these chocolate flavors—how do you say it? _Coffee?_ ”  
  
“My dear Elsa, look here—something special for you to share. We call them— _Espresso Beans_.”  
  
“Will Anna like them?”  
  
“ _Ha, ha!_ I am sure of it.”  
 _  
Yeah, and she'll be the only_ _one._ They'd be lucky if the King and Queen didn't end up calling in a doctor for the inevitable hyperactivity.  
  
(Er. The _increased_ hyperactivity.)  
  
“ _Oy vey_ —I remember when you were just a tiny snowflake!” North said sometime later, voice bright with pride and thick with nostalgia. ( _Hey_ , Jack thought, peeved beyond measure, especially when Elsa smiled up at North with warmth and gratitude. _That was_ my _nickname for her._ ) “Look how lovely you've become! A true Princess, indeed.”  
  
Elsa flushed her thanks, and Jack tried not to roll his eyes.  
  
( _Now. Where are the rest of those chocolates...?_ )  
  
The truth of the matter was that Jack was probably the luckiest Guardian alive, whatever that meant or didn't mean; it was getting easier to let go of some of the weight in his heart now, especially when his chest could feel so light on nights like this. Jack no longer dragged the burdens of _Who am I?_ What _am I?_ around on his shoulders—because he knew.  
  
He was Elsa's Guardian.  
  
And a whole bunch of other kids' too. And a friend, even if he wasn't always a very good one. (Though he _was_ trying.) He was a winter spirit who'd been given a second chance, chosen by the Moon himself; he was the Guardian of _Fun_ , and took great pride in it; he was a force to be reckoned with, powerful and strong, who'd go to unimaginable lengths to protect the ones he loved. He was a mature, responsible young man with a level head on his shoulders and the self-discipline to match.  
  
Okay, okay—maybe not that last one.  
  
“Jack? Why are you laughing?”  
  
“Nothing,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand, smiling at Elsa's skeptical brow. He kept on smiling, even when Elsa's curiosity became a deadpan-frown.

. * * * .

The room was so much quieter without North in it.  
  
It was hours later, judging by the bluish tint of the sky, and they were lounging at the window, surrounded by pillows and empty boxes. They'd taken their usual positions at opposite ends of the wall once more, and Jack wondered what Manny was thinking, if he could still see them from the other side of the world.

( _These nights were the hardest—weren't they?_  
 _New Moons, when you were truly left alone.  
  
But you liked it, too.  
  
You weren't the only one who was invisible. _ )

Jack sank back against the wall, setting Elsa's book aside with a sharp huff of breath. He'd taken a closer look at _The Prince_ , relieved to finally learn what it actually was, and sort of annoyed at the author's voice... even if Elsa _did_ explain how so many historians argued the whole thing to be some kind of satire. (“ _His torture by the power of the Medici family is actually a strong piece of evidence supporting that claim_ ,” which was actually a pretty disturbing nugget of information in and of itself, and even more so coming from Elsa's matter-of-fact, worryingly casual, _oh-I-mention-torture-in-passing_ sort of voice.)  
  
Either way. He wasn't a fan.  
  
“This was nice,” Elsa said suddenly, glancing up from her own book.  
  
Jack may have actually flinched, given that he was still dwelling on the disconcerting link between torture and Elsa's knowledge of it, and he wasn't really all that much aware of it, when he jerked forward and demanded, “What was?”  
  
Elsa stared at him. “This,” she repeated, her shoulders rising just slightly. “The nature of this holiday... finishing the year on a cheerful note, and spending time with friends. Receiving visits from family.”  
  
 _Exchanging gifts_ , Jack's mind muttered.  
  
“Are you saying North is family?” he demanded, far grouchier than he'd intended. Elsa might have been amused.  
  
“Isn't he?” she whispered.  
  
Well, of course he was. And he _knew_ that North was Elsa's family, too—not in the way that Anna was, or her parents, never quite like that—but.  
  
In _some_ ways... maybe they were more family to Elsa than her real family was.  
  
Not by any stroke of malice from her own parents—the King was well-intentioned, if not short-sighted—but rather, simply because the Guardians could understand Elsa in a way that very few humans could. ( _Anna might—if she'd be allowed.)_ The Guardians filled the holes that were left by life and loneliness, and each filled the gaps with something of their own.  
  
Time after time, Bunnymund seemed to take on the big brotherly roles—over-protectiveness, and all. The philosophy and intellect and the life advice and the mostly patient ear. The all-knowing Pooka, or whatever he was supposed to be. And North was just like, this big teddy bear of an uncle who liked to play with swords, who liked to spoil kids rotten with presents and teach them about seeing the beauty in the world or some crap. Toothiana was so naturally maternal, and _Sandy_ —well. Jack didn't know what the hell Sandy was. Probably the other brother that was super insightful and insensitive and never argued, but could take down a bully in a fight. Yeah. That seemed right. And Jack?  
  
He didn't really know what he was supposed to be, either. Two brothers already seemed like plenty enough to him, but it wasn't like he'd prefer to consider himself an uncle, either.

 _Ugggh_.  
  
He was actually going to say something—crack some joke about having a Grandfather Moon—but Jack stopped himself short. There was something in her eyes, then, that made Jack wonder just how long they'd been sitting in silence; quiet appraisal, maybe, or consideration, which were both very much in the realm of Elsa's glances, and... Jack tried looking closer, but whatever it'd been—it was gone now.  
  
Jack smiled sheepishly, hoping she'd take his lame expression for the apology it was. Elsa rolled her eyes at him and turned back to her book, and his smile widened; she forgave him pretty quickly, then.  
  
Maybe there wasn't really a word yet for what Jack was to Elsa. Cousins, by magic? _No freakin' way_. (Kindred, mischievous spirits.) Friends. _Best_ friends.  
  
Bros.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Um. Nothing.”

 _Yeah_. Jack decided that, for lack of any better way to describe it, he and Elsa were bros. He just couldn't say that out loud.  
  
Not if he didn't want to get hit.  
  
 _Although..._ Jack thought to himself, smiling with memory—a new one, too, created that very evening. _I might end up getting hit, anyway._ And maybe he wouldn't mind—he hadn't even noticed, really, when Elsa had snatched the second box of chocolates from his grasp with a swift jab to the arm. He should have seen it coming; whether it was a healthy breech of Elsa's character or _not_ , Jack should have physically _seen_ it coming. So why didn't he?  
  
Because he was too distracted by the tiny wisp of ice and snow curling from her palm... Its light was bright and glimmering, and its curls were soft and graceful, and North was just as entranced as he was, caught by surprise and wonder.  
  
Elsa's confidence was growing.  
  
(And so was her strength, apparently.) _  
  
_“What are you smiling about?”  
  
“Who says I have to be smiling about anything?” Jack quipped, dropping the book to the floor. He was done with it, anyway. “It's Christmas. I could be smiling about a lot of things. Or everything.”  
  
“Or something terrible.”  
  
“Or something _wonderful_.”  
  
“You are fortunate that North enjoys your humor; I have a feeling that as jolly as he is, he would not accept such impertinence from just anyone.”  
  
“Well, I am, after all, the King of Impertinence.”  
  
“And what am I?”  
  
“Paying too much attention to that book.”  
  
Elsa's chin dipped down, hard eyes and amused grin, and she challenged, “As opposed to...?”  
  
“Elsa, come _on!”_ he flopped back onto the pillows dramatically, thoroughly enjoying the new game. “You'll have to go to sleep soon, and I've got to go to Canada for a polar vortex! Just—like, for one more hour— _please_ put the book away?”  
  
“Goodness, Jack!” Elsa laughed, and she was already gently setting the book to the floor. “You could have simply asked!”  
  
 _Oh, really?_ He could have said the same thing a few hours before, when he was elbow-deep in jumping, scrambling Elsa-limbs and was warding off her thin arms from the victory of chocolate. (Which weren't his to begin with, anyway—but that was beside the point.  
  
They liked their games.)  
  
“So now what?” Elsa asked him, and perhaps she was milking the moment, because there was a tiny huff with an extra flair of drama, which served him well.  
  
“Another round of thumb-wrestling?” he suggested with a wink, and promptly received a pillow to the shoulder. He raised one back—a laughing threat laced into his feral smile—and when Elsa ducked for cover, the only proper thing to do was to plop down next to her.  
  
Eventually, she followed his lead. Flat on their backs, legs bent, bare feet against the walls. His head next to hers, his temple at her chin, hers at his, and _this,_ this made it only slightly easier to tug on her braid. She scolded him for taking it out of its coil, of course. But it was worth it.  
  
“How long will you be gone?” she whispered later, on the cusp of sleep. Jack was feeling very relaxed himself, but he knew that sleep wouldn't come to him again.  
  
Not for a long, long time.  
  
“Few weeks,” Jack mumbled, already dreading it. But there were good things to look forward to, too, he supposed; with the Memory of that night in Jamie's room fresh in his mind, Jack could only wonder: how _was_ Jamie, anyway? The pain that the Memory had brought made Jack able to appreciate his existence _now_ , all the more... but it made him feel a little guilty about not visiting him as much, too. ( _You didn't stop being his Guardian just because he stopped Believing in you_.) He should probably go check up on him.  
  
“Will you be back in time for my birthday?”  
  
 _Birth—?  
  
_ “ _Shit_ , yeah—you're like, right in the middle of one hell of a snowstorm, but I'll be here. Damn. I gotta get going soon, then.”  
  
“All right.”

Jack felt his throat tighten unexpectedly.  
  
“Hey,” he said quietly, knowing that this was probably something he shouldn't say. “ Don't have—don't have too much Fun without me. Okay?”  
  
He could feel the huff of laughter escape her, and then Elsa's head twisted closer. He could feel her breath on his cheek.  
  
“I think you overestimate how exciting my life can be without you,” Elsa said quietly, disappointment without bitterness, and Jack couldn't help it, the tiny flicker of relief—followed immediately by guilt. “To think... of how I would have spent this evening, or any other Christmas, without you. I wouldn't have even known that it existed. I would have spent this night alone.”  
  
“You're not alone,” Jack said automatically, staring hard at the ceiling. A tense moment passed, and then that's where Elsa was staring, too.  
  
“I know,” she whispered.  
  
The air felt thick, then, thick and heavy, and Jack wasn't sure why. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay in this room with Elsa. He wanted to take her outside and show her what winter could _really_ look like. How beautiful it could be—and how _strong_ , and relentless, and powerful. He could take her away.  
  
He could bring her somewhere safe, where she could be herself—where her magic would be loved and understood, and Anna would come too, and people would adore her the way _he_ did. They could go some place where nothing terrible would ever find them.  
  
Jack swallowed hard, and pushed the images from his mind; it'd been the first Dream he'd had in centuries, and he'd never be allowed to pursue it.  
  
She wouldn't let him.  
  
“Do you know what North said to me, before he left?”  
  
Jack's head shifted, and a few strands of Elsa's long bangs mingled with his. She was going to cut them. He was sure of it.  
  
“He gave me another package to open, then said it was a present for my birthday, and that I wasn't allowed to open it tonight. Do you know what he also said?”  
  
Jack Frost licked his lips, and found himself desperately wishing for water. (It was all mental, he reminded himself; he hadn't needed _water_ in quite some time. Not unless it was frozen.) “What?” he asked, clearing his throat.  
  
“He congratulated me on the big one-seven,” Elsa told him with a surprising laugh. Jack's brows furrowed.  
  
“I don't get it.”  
  
“No? The big one-seven?” Elsa gently twisted toward him, so he could see her eyes. Whatever she was talking about, she found it quite funny. Jack only scowled. “For my birthday? Because I'll be turning seventeen?”  
  
Oh.  
  
“The _big_ one-seven?” Jack repeated dubiously, cracking a smirk, and hastily sewed back together the seams that had ripped inside. “I don't know about big.”  
  
“Oh?” Elsa smiled, curious and warm. “And what would you call it?”  
  
Jack thought about that.  
  
“I dunno. The _great_ one-seven, maybe.”  
  
Elsa laughed, and Jack let the sound carry him up—out of the dark hole that he could feel himself sinking into. He hovered at the brink, staring down into its depths— _knowing how deep it went, and just how far he could fall—_ but refused to slip, or to dive, or to give it his notice any longer. Elsa was waiting for him.  
  
“All right,” she was smiling, and he could see it clearly, right in front of him, bright and genuine, even upside-down. “And is it?” she asked him, stars in her eyes and sleep in her smile, and in this moment, she was warm and safe and happy.  
  
Which was pretty much all he'd ever wanted.  
  
“Yeah,” Jack responded carefully, testing the words on his tongue. “I'd say seventeen is pretty great.”  
  
And he believed it.

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“But then again,” he laughed,  
quiet and true.  
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“I might be a little biased.”

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 **(**[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNrxTsl36Gk) **)**  
  
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	88. - only kids -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/12/14_. It's funny how this story started as a way to take breaks from writing grad school applications... and now it's a way of taking breaks from homework. :P I will forever remember this time in my life as "grad school, plus jelsa." Or maybe the other way around. ~~("The half a year I spent writing an epic-length Jelsa fanfiction novel and--oh, grad school too, I guess.")~~
> 
>  **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** has drawn another _at the center_ doodle, and I think this one is my absolute favorite yet. ([x](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/85481328522/chickensaredoodling-this-was-meant-to-be-a))  
>  And a huge, huge thanks to **[rcfontanta](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com)** for another lovely fanart! ([x](http://rcfontana.tumblr.com/post/84872845857/you-dont-know-how-selfish-i-am-jack-frost))
> 
> THANK YOU THANK YOU. <3 <3 Please go visit the artists' page and spread some love!

 

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_\- only kids -_  
  
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**. M A G I C .**

Only kids liked the wintertime.  
  
Or that was how it felt, anyway, in Arendelle; the townspeople just couldn't wait to pack away their scarves and cloaks, and be done with the wind and ice and chill. ( _Summer can't come quickly enough_ , they'd say, or _These blasted winters last half the year!_  
  
 _It's high-time we move to Corona, where it's practically summer all year round!_ )  
  
Jack Frost ignored them, and instead focused on what mattered: Elsa was more determined than ever to get a hold on her powers.  
  
In the light of day, she held everything in—never let go of _anything_ —not a single wisp, nor flake, nor breeze in the air, and she only wore the gloves once a week, when she met with her parents for supper. At night, her magic came alive, in bright swirls and gentle clouds, in soft flurries and delicate ice sculptures just large enough for his palm. They liked it best when the storms raged on outside, and Elsa could open her window to play. ( _“I love to create my own art ... but Nature always does it best._ ”  
  
“I'm sure Mother Nature would be very pleased to hear that.”  
  
Jack knew that said creature wouldn't actually care, one way or another, but Elsa didn't really need to know about Mother Nature's weirdly finicky sense of apathy.)  
  
Within the first few weeks of the new year, Elsa was able to identify three particular strategies that she could use to control herself in times of distress: the King's _mantra_ , which Jack was forced to reluctantly and painfully admit actually helped pinpoint her focus; _pacing_ , so as to direct her energy into a series of specific movements and give her a sense of the familiar... which _also_ led to another vital piece to Elsa's strategy, for when all else failed.  
  
 _Distraction._  
  
The idea was that, should Elsa somehow accidentally summon _and_ release her powers, these tricks would be her first—( and possibly last , Elsa joked)—line of defense.

( _“I don't get it. What do you mean summon_ and _release? What do you have to summon anything for?”_  
  
 _“It's difficult to explain. It's like... It's as if I've been burying this magic deep inside me for all these years._  
 _And I've gotten quite good at it, to the points that—sometimes, in my stronger moments—I almost forget that I possess magic at all.”_  
  
 _“Forgetting your powers doesn't make you stronger—”_  
  
 _“I know it doesn't. It's just that—when I feel the most in control, I can almost convince myself that my magic isn't real,_  
 _which is—which is really the point, isn't it? I mean, if I can prove this much to myself, then there is no question of what everyone else will believe.”_  
  
 _“Yeah, but—”_  
  
 _“I know. You mean well, but—just listen to me. Please._  
 _It's gotten to the point now that when I_ do _call upon my magic, I actually have to... I have to_ call _for it._  
 _I have to dig deep and look for it, and invite it to the surface. It only comes up with my approval now, where as before—for years—it felt like_  
 _it was always just hovering below the surface, begging to come out._  
 _Now... may magic listens. It only comes when I call. And I have to find it first.”_  
  
 _“Well... what happens if you can't find it?”_  
  
Elsa merely smiled.  
  
 _“Someone fairly wise once told me that just because the sun and moon disappear each night and day does not mean that I stop Believing in them..._  
 _And just because you like to fly away and freeze children's amusement parks on regrettable occasion does not mean that_  
 _for one second I'll believe that you won't be back for me._  
  
 _My magic is the same way.”_ )

Inevitably, it soon came to be that mere theory and discussion was no longer enough, and so they strove to discover ways in which they could _simulate_ an instance that would bring on such intense levels of anxiety... they couldn't very well allow her to actually practice in front of others, and the idea of Jack leading Elsa into danger was laughable, not to mention the fact that Elsa could never allow herself to believe that _Jack_ would cause her any harm, himself, even for the sake of training. Eventually, it was Jack who devised a solution for giving Elsa a chance to put her strategies into practice.  
  
They danced.  
  
( _“Jack. Be serious. We dance all the time!”_  
  
“No, wait—just hear me out!”)  
  
The multi-tasking and coordination. The concentration and the contact. It was the same as it'd always been, but more intentional; because the steps came naturally and the movements flowed smoothly, Jack and Elsa focused on other things that would challenge her focus. (Trying to dance on a sheet of ice was fun; dancing on the rooftop _would_ have been fun, if she'd allowed it; dancing on a frozen lake had been half a joke, but Elsa hadn't found the suggestion very funny.) She chanted her mantra silently in her head as they twirled about the library's alcove in the dead of night— _where any curious servant or sleepless inhabitant of the castle could come wandering in_ —or as they ran and hid about the halls, exhilarated, with all the quiet, giggling stealth of two friendly field mice, and if Jack just so happened to sometimes imagine himself wearing a fancy suit jacket and stupid trousers while they danced, then so what?  
  
They played Slapjack too, where physical pain was imminent—and questionably _mild_ —and the adrenaline ran high, always. It involved direct contact from skin to skin, and offered suspenseful uncertainty in each round. It was perfect.  
  
It was Fun.  
  
And the fun kept him from thinking too much about the other reasons why Elsa was suddenly so eager to dance with him all the time. That it was a stepping stone to a greater goal... one that had everything to do with being okay. Without him.  
  
And that was the whole point, wasn't it? To teach Elsa the lessons that would help carry her through, especially when he wasn't around.  
  
When she no longer needed him.

( _“I get the feeling sometimes that—I don't know—I could do_ more.  
 _I could create_ more _than just snow flurries and passing breezes. Do you understand?”_  
  
 _“Uhh... You mean, like, blizzards?”_  
  
 _“I don't... I don't know what I mean.”_ )

It hurt, so he didn't think about it.  
  
But at the same time, he knew that he'd have to face it eventually. Bunny had been dropping comments for years about _it's okay if you're not ready to think about it just yet_ and _you don't have to dwell on it, and especially not now_ , but Elsa would be turning seventeen in just another week or so, and the implications of that seemed pretty impossible to ignore.  
  
These were the last days that Elsa would be younger than him.  
  
It'd been a long, long time since he'd remembered the pain of _when she no longer Believes_ , and he was grateful—so unfathomably grateful—for his luck, he didn't care what— _or who_ —was responsible for it. But even if Elsa did manage to Believe in him until the end of time, it didn't change the fact that Elsa was growing up, as she'd always been.  
  
And he wasn't.  
  
He was gonna have to start thinking about that soon— _but not yet_ . They still had a few years before some fancy Princes would come swooping down on her with grand romantic gestures, but Elsa would eventually fall for one of them, and they'd talk to her father, and she'd get married, and it wasn't like she'd still want him hanging around on her honeymoon. He'd always come back, obviously, but instead of weeks, they'd wait between years and decades; he'd miss birthday celebrations and legislative meetings and fancy balls. He wouldn't be needed as a dance partner, anymore. And he wouldn't show up in the middle of the night, just because he could. He'd miss full moons and new moons and new books from the library. Bilberries in the summer and flower crowns in the spring. Sunrises. Christmases. Dreams.  
  
Her children would all Believe in the Guardians, of course.  
  
Jack Frost would be their favorite.  
  
And little by little, the kingdom of Arendelle would come to appreciate ice and snow, and maybe— _one day_ —Elsa would no longer need to hide. Her husband could love her for who she was, magic and all, and maybe, if they were all lucky, it wouldn't be that douchebag Henrik. There had to be somebody out there who'd make a better companion than that guy. And seriously—what the hell would a guy from the Southern Isles know about _snow?_ No one used to notice Jack's snowflakes in this world, before Elsa. She appreciated each one— every curve, every angle, every pattern.  
  
And hers were growing more intricate every day.

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_“But how do we clear it away?”_  
  
 _“What do you mean? Like—how do we get rid of it?_  
 _The ice?”_  
  
 _“Well—yes, I suppose.”_  
  
 _“Huh. I dunno. Thawing stuff? That's... That's not really what I'm here for, so..._  
 _I dunno. I don't think my magic works like that.”_

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 _“Oh.”_

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**. M E M O R Y .**

Pitch was getting smarter.  
  
Never striking in the same place twice. Targeting children who would fall under the humans' radar. Thirty-four children affected in less than a year... and they were from all over. The Lost were marked on North's large globe by their sadness and weak spirits, taking shape as tiny, flickering lights of gray. (Lost because of their teeth and their Memories; Lost, because they could be _found_.)  
  
And Pitch never, ever attacked the children themselves... only their Memories.  
  
So easily misplaced.  
  
Jack got tired of staring at depressing globes all day, and got tired of waiting for a solution to present itself, so he would stare at the maps that North had given Elsa instead, and Jack would point out all the places he'd been. She loved his stories, and read about the same cities and mountains and lagoons in the books he brought her; she would mark each one with ink, and make note of where Jack had been and what he'd loved most about it, and she collected them like little treasures in her tiny spiral notebook, the one she was not technically allowed to have. He offered one morning to go wherever she wished, and bring her something back for her collection, and was already thinking of the lilacs he'd find, or the sea glass and sand dollars, but Elsa had stiffened suddenly, eyes clouded like storm clouds, and graciously declined.

( _“It's very sweet of you, Jack... and it's no secret how fascinating I find your travels, but...  
I don't think... I don't think it would be in my best interests.” _ )

He responded well enough, with an easy-going smile and a lift of his heavy shoulders, but it bothered him a lot more than he'd have thought. He'd only meant to do something nice, and he wasn't quite sure where it'd gone wrong.  
  
Bunny explained that it was probably Elsa's way of protecting herself, and before Jack had a chance to _flip the fuck out_ , he further explained that Rapunzel had often painted and sketched the things she longed to see, preferring to merely imagine them until she could experience them for herself. ( _“She never once asked Pascal to climb down and pluck a dandelion—y'know? Until she could pick one herself, she was hesitant to... Well. Hm. Think of it this way. Rapunzel spent most of her life in that godforsaken tower—it was her whole world. Those tiny rooms and that measly vines on that one window. When you spend your entire life longing for something—I mean, when you've spent that long already, waiting—why would she spoil herself a broken taste of beauty when she wants to one day live it whole? Elsa might be no different. And maybe neither are we, mate—if you haven't noticed yet, we're sorta All or Nothin' around here.”_ )  
  
Jack left it alone, after that.  
  
They still marked her maps ( _Coolest Ice Skating Rink_ in New York City, _Funnest Tree to Climb in a Snowstorm_ in Quebec) but Jack didn't offer to bring her anything again. She'd always liked his ice gifts better, anyway... even if hers were technically becoming better than his. (It didn't sit right with him, though, that North was allowed to bring her gifts from other worlds and he wasn't, but apparently he was just gonna have to let that go.)  
  
Speaking of.  
  
Elsa's seventeenth birthday rolled around without fanfare, and Jack was there, like he said he'd be. He arrived earlier than expected and raced downstairs to find her—dining with her parents, no doubt—and was surprised to see her already curtsying goodbye. Her gloves were blue that day.  
  
Jack knew for a fact that she could have easily hugged her parents goodbye.  
  
He made no comment, however, as the two of them trailed up the grand staircase in silence, and it was only as they rounded the corner and neared the third floor that Elsa's pace did quicken, and excitement stuttered in his chest, and a breathy gasp of laughter escaped her as she took off down the deserted corridor towards her room, and it wasn't any surprise when Jack won the race. (It was very rare that he was presented with any occasion to show off in front of Elsa nowadays, so of course he had to take advantage of what he could.)

He didn't offer her much this birthday, still sensitive to the trickier complexities of what he'd recently learned, but North's finely-wrapped gift was still waiting in the drawer of her vanity, where it'd been resting since Christmas Eve. (Jack had tried to open it twice; after three hundred years' of not having to worry about anybody seeing him, Jack was not very sneaky.)  
  
It was a journal.  
  
Leather-bound and beautifully carved, with crisp pages and lines spaced perfectly to her style; the cover was a deep, familiar blue, and it was simple and elegant, and pretty much everything Elsa was. There were plenty of pages, but Jack couldn't help but worry she'd go through them in a single week.  
  
( _“Oh, Jack, look.... How sweet of him. Jack—look here...”_ )  
  
Jack stepped forward, close at her side, and she leaned into his shoulder as she held out the empty book for him to see. There was something written on the underside of the front cover.

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 _“For Elsa,_  
 _our tiny, eternal snowflake._  
  
 _Someone I admire once told me that life_  
 _is not measured by time,_  
 _but by Memories._  
  
 _May this gift keep your Memories sharp,_  
 _your happiness present,_  
 _and your wonderful life full of each.”_

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If at any point Elsa noticed him itching at his eyes,  
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She never said anything.

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. A N N A .**

And holy hell, Anna was _fourteen_.  
  
He vaguely remembered her turning twelve, maybe—no, no. Thirteen. She was thirteen the night of the ball. Jack remembered that pretty clearly enough, but whenever he tried to think of any time before that, his mind immediately took him back to somewhere around age four. Five. Maybe five. In his mind, Anna was always small, knocking on Elsa's bedroom door, with twin braids and a freckled smile and a song on her lips.  
  
Anna no longer knocked.

( _And lately... she hadn't had much to sing about._ )  


There were things Jack Frost had noticed, hanging around the castle so much. Things he wasn't really sure he wanted to share with Elsa just yet. If ever.  
  
Like how Anna was responsible for studying the same subjects that Elsa had studied at her age, both in the realms of academia and politics, and she did pretty well... if not with a little less finesse. Whereas Elsa's lessons were always filled with quiet, thoughtful conversation and profound insights, and at least three our four new books shipped from overseas, Anna could rarely go four minutes without being reminded to pay attention, or to correct some mistake.  
  
Elsa's teachers had given up trying to instruct her directly sometime over the last few years or so, and now relied on her avid reading to carry her where they could not. She only ever met with them occasionally to discuss current events and politics, really, and most of the time they merely asked her questions, and listened. They were always very impressed, and rarely ever surprised. Anna was very smart—so very, very smart—and she was often commended on her drive and determination, her natural curiosity and creativity. And yet... Elsa spoke with poise and conviction. With grace and diplomacy and intelligence, and a sharp wit—but only if you were clever enough to catch on.  
  
Their tutors would never dare to voice any comparison out loud, but Jack could hear it in their thoughts. ( _Elsa mastered this in two days,_ their eyes would say. Or, _Why is Anna still struggling with the Old Language? Elsa was proficient before she reached the age of seven_.) He could see it in the small lines tucked between their brows, concern and consternation.  
  
And so could Anna.  
  
Elsa knew that Jack still checked up on Anna every so often, so he wasn't really going all that far out of the ordinary when he started taking extra trips to her side of the castle before he went to see Elsa. The idea of masking himself with invisibility still made his fingers shake, even to this day, made his stomach clench and churn, but it was somehow becoming a strangely regular part of his routine. It was one thing to merely hide in the shadows and hold his breath in the hopes that he wouldn't get caught; it was another thing entirely, thinking of how he might then slip from a banister and fall straight within a human's sight... only to realize that he'd earn no notice at all.

Probably better to just render himself invisible and be done with it, Jack often decided. It was sometimes easier to not know who still Believed, and who didn't.  
  
So that was how he noticed that Anna had packed away all of her old storybooks— _the grand adventures she used to read with Elsa_ —and started to borrow romance novels from her mother. It was how he knew that his book was still on the shelf nearest her bed, even if it'd been a while since she'd picked it up.  
  
And it was how Jack could hear her talking to herself, mumbling in both bitter daylight and restless sleep, _"Who needs Elsa, anyway?"_

_. * * * ._

 


	89. - very easily -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/16/14_. Thanks for your patience! 'Tis a busy time of year. :P And a huge thanks to **SOCKSSSSS** for the beta-read!

  
. * * * .  
  
 _\- very easily -_  
  
. * * * .

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. * * * .  
  
. **T O O T H I A N A**.  
  


“I have called you here for one reason, and one reason only—”  
  
“Bullshite, you blubbering blowhard!”  
  
Just another typical meeting between the Guardians.

There were still at least two months before Easter, so Jack honestly didn't know what the hell Bunnymund was so frantic for, but at least their bickering gave him plenty of time to practice communicating with Sandy. He was definitely getting better at interpreting Sandy's language, though he occasionally needed help... and sometimes it was little more than guesswork and intuition. He vaguely wished that he'd spent more time getting the feel for Sandy's communication earlier, but... being resentful of him for those few years probably hadn't really helped, either.  
  
He and Sandy were keeping busy with a game of sand-chess, and Jack may or may not have been preening over how impressive his skills were looking in comparison; after so many years of defeat at the hands of Elsa, actually having a chance at winning was pretty nice for a change. Sandy kept scratching at his temple with the only sand-piece that he'd won—one of Jack's knights—and, every so often, the two would pause their play to watch the chaos ensue across the room.  
  
And, out of the corner of his eye, Jack stole glances at Toothiana.  
  
She was fighting a losing battle—trying to mediate _theirs—_ but her distraction gave Jack plenty of consideration time to himself. She was determined and strong, and stubborn in all of the kindest ways, and didn't take crap from anybody. She was smart, and friendly, and honest. She was the best kind of friend that a person could have... even if you were a shitty friend like Jack Frost.  
  
He could love her, maybe.  
  
 _Your move_.  
  
Jack nearly started at the burst of sand-clouds over Sandy's head, and Jack jerkily shifted forward a pawn. It was a blind sort of move—one that lost him a bishop a mere moment later—and Jack cursed inwardly, vowing to pay better attention. Sandy chuckled soundlessly and Jack scowled back weakly. It was only when Sandy's eyes glanced meaningfully toward the others—and then _meaningfully_ back to Jack's—that he realized that Sandy knew exactly what he'd been staring at. Or who.  
  
One warning glare and an arguably rude hand gesture later, Jack was scowling at the chess board in front of him, trying not to get lost in all of the thousands of tiny grains of sand. And avoiding Sandy's gaze, too.  
  
The pieces shifted about the board, but Jack's mind was only half in the game. Was it fair, the way he was thinking? To _imagine_ that he could care more deeply for Toothiana, but not know for sure? The actual possibility hadn't occurred to him until recently... Granted, he'd been a little preoccupied for the last three hundred years, what with the whole invisibility and inner-turmoil thing— _and he might have been a tiny bit resentful, too, because the Guardians never gave him the time of night, not unless he tried barreling into their workshops, or freezing their Easter Sundays... not until they_ needed _him_ —but the _point_ was that they were all a team now. A team. (Yeah, Toothiana had never sought him out before Pitch showed up, but he hadn't exactly gone popping into her palace either; he hadn't wanted much of anything to do with any of them, and she barely had anytime for herself, let alone some mopey winter sprite who messed shit up for kicks.) But things had changed. They were a  _family_ , so what the hell did that mean for _now_?

( _Or for_ forever _?_ )

Jack absently shifted a rook forward, stealing another glance at the trio across the main floor. The fighting was unintelligible now—North had retreated to Old Russian, and Bunny's insults were so creative Jack would have needed an actual interpreter—but Tooth was still there in the crossfire, patient and firm and reasonable.  
  
On other days, Jack might have laughed.  
  
He was suddenly struck with a question, burning and no doubt inappropriate: _Was there a_ Mrs _. Claus...? Like in the stories?_ Jack Frost had never thought to ask before, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. The real question was, how did _any_ of them cope with the loneliness? Working themselves into the ground over an oath they took eons ago? He couldn't imagine an eternity of burying himself in business. He didn't want that. That was the last thing he wanted.  
  
But could he _do_ this? Jack had just barely gotten used to the idea of living in the moment in a lifetime that would supposedly never _end_ aaaaaand—okay. Holy shit. Maybe he'd gotten used to only the first part. _Definitely_ just the first part. (The second part, he didn't think about. Didn't even try—just didn't think about it.) He was still busy treasuring the _now_ , because he'd come very close to taking it for granted, and was content to spend all of his waking hours ensuring that _these_ days with Elsa would provide him with enough Memories to last a thousand lifetimes.  
  
Maybe it was inevitable; maybe he and Toothiana would be good for each other, the way they were as friends—only more. Maybe they were meant to be together, as friends and as Guardians, and as something _more_. And who said he had to decide anything right now? Like, technically speaking—they had all the time in the world. (In _multiple_ worlds.) Nobody was telling Jack to make any sort of grand decision right that very minute—so he wouldn't. But at least the thought was out there, in the open.  
  
Yeah. That was it.  
  
He was getting all worked up for nothing.  
  
“ _You're_ getting all worked up? Crikey, somebody get this kid a bucket of ice water.”  
  
And oh, look, the meeting was back on.

. * * * .

Nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately. Pitch was still attacking children's Memories, without any sort of pattern that the Guardians could detect. Toothiana was able to shed a tiny bit more light on the process, and it made Jack sick to his stomach. Luring children in and stealing their teeth... burying their happiest memories with dark shadows instead. They were so young, and so confused—the children couldn't be sure of what happened, themselves. Depending on their ages—anywhere from five to nine—they forgot about their friendships, _grew paranoid_ . They lost their confidence in themselves because they couldn't remember any of the times that they did something well. ( _Self-efficacy_ , or some fancy term—Tooth explained it a lot better than he could.) The children lost their faith and trust in themselves and, in time... their faith in the Guardians, too.  
  
The trolls' magic was very complex, and Toothiana assured them that—for now—Pitch was merely overlaying the Shadows over the real Memories, burying them down deep  
  
( _For now_ , because he no doubt sought to deepen the darkness, in which the Memories and Shadows would either become too intertwined that not even the Memory-bearer could discern which was real and which was a Dream—a _Nightmare—_ or that the child could lose their happy Memories forever. _That's how he will ultimately bring all children to stop Believing in the Guardians_ , Toothiana whispered fiercely, eyes burning with rage. _By challenging their Memories. Making them question their moments of faith. Shaking their truths._ )  
  
The count was at forty-seven.

. * * * .

“Makes my blood boil,” Bunny muttered sometime later, sharpening the edges of his favorite boomerang. Jack lifted his head, glanced at Bunnymund to his side.  
  
“Yeah,” Jack added dully. “Mine, too.”  
  
Bunny's head snapped up, eyes sharp, but Jack merely offered him a shrug. “You tryin' to be funny, Frost?” he barked.  
  
There was something witty to say in response to that; Jack knew because he had an entire bank of them, saved up for moment just like these. All he managed to do was give another shrug.  
  
Bunnymund eyed him over, not quite sure what to make of this quiet, sullen Jack; the Frost King himself was staring blankly at the others as they bid each other goodbye, so he could only barely tell from the corner of his eye when Bunnymund chanced a few glances back and forth between the lot of them. He tried not to be annoyed.  
  
“Say, uh... you give any more thought to where you'll be settin' up shop? It might be nice for you to get a globe of your own. You know. _Away_ from the Warren.”  
  
Jack cracked a smile in spite of himself. “You don't want to be neighbors?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He laughed outright, running a hand through his hair. “I dunno,” he answered honestly, too tired to think of any more quips. “It seems kinda... pointless, to keep coming back to Burgess.” Jack's chest clenched, like he'd accidentally said too much. “You know?”  
  
Bunny considered this, long and hard. “I think I see what you're getting' at,” he answered quietly. “Most of your kids are off to college already... And it ain't the same.”  
  
“It's just—it's different now,” Jack rushed to explain, though it seemed like Bunny didn't need much of an explanation. It didn't matter. _Jack_ needed to explain. “Like... _before_ , when none of them—when none of them could see me... it didn't really matter, you know? How fast they grew up or not. There were always more kids somewhere else—kids who didn't see me—and I... I just. I don't know, man. These kids _saw_ me,” he insisted, gripped by the idea. “And it's not like I've—like I've given them any opportunity to prove me wrong, but... I just know that they can't see me anymore. They've got their whole lives ahead of them, but they... they...”  
  
Jack felt like he could go on forever, but something inside of him made him stop. Bunny was listening very intently. Listening like he understood.  
  
With a great sigh, Bunny wrapped his arms around his bent legs, his boomerang still in hand. “Even the little ankle-biter is off to prom soon,” he added, tired in its fondness.  
  
Jack's eyes narrowed curiously. ( _What in the hell was a_ prom _?_ )  
  
“Ankle-biter?” Jack asked... His eyes widened at Bunny's impatient look. “You mean _Sophie_? You—you still keep tabs on her?”  
  
Bunny mirrored his shrug, but somehow managed to add in the tiniest hint of a smile. “Trust me, kid—the multi-tasking gets a lot easier over the years.”  
  
Jack picked his jaw back up from where it dropped, and thought about that. He really needed to get off his ass and go visit Jamie.  
  
“So. Where you thinkin' then?”  
  
Jack's brows furrowed. He'd almost forgotten Bunny's original question. “I don't know, man,” he replied, biting the inside of his cheek. “Is it weird to set up camp in Antarctica?”  
  
 _“Holy_ cannoli—you _are_ a Frost freak, aren't you?”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Jack snapped. “There's nothing wrong with Antarctica.”  
  
“We'll see how proudly you're singing that tune when your swimmin' with the penguins.”  
  
“Better than a couple 'a _kangaroos_.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Nothin'. Just like there's _nothing_ wrong with Antarctica.”  
  
“If you so say, kid,” he sighed, less than convinced. “I don't get why you wouldn't just pick one of those mountains in Arendelle. The North Mountain looks friendly.”  
  
Jack swiveled his head to look at him once more, but this time, Bunny didn't follow suit; he waited for further explanation, and was met with nothing.  
  
“I couldn't do that,” Jack argued, irrationally angry at the mere suggestion.  
  
“Well, why not?”  
  
“Because— _because_ —look. Arendelle is one of my favorite places out of any of these worlds, not gonna lie, but that's... don't you think that's taking it a bit too far?”  
  
“I don't see it that way,” Bunny answered calmly, offering him a single side glance. “Arendelle is just as much home for you as Burgess is, or the Workshop, or any of these other haunts you creep about.”  
  
“You mean like the Warren?”  
  
“Don't push your luck,” Bunny sniped. “I'm just sayin'. You'd be pretty cozy up there in the mountaintops, and you know it.”  
  
Jack frowned at the floor. The truth was—Bunny was right. He was more than right.  
  
It was something Jack had thought about on more than one occasion.  
  
“Look... I appreciate the support, or whatever, but... As much as I'd like to treat Arendelle like a home, it's not mine. A second home, maybe, but... It's Elsa's home. She just shares it with me.”  
  
 _It's not mine_.  
  
Jack held his ground as Bunny looked him over. “All right,” said Bunnymund at long last. “If you say so, kid.”  
  
It was a few minutes later—in the midst of Jack turned-about, muddled-up thoughts about whether or not he should actually heed Bunny's suggestion—that the Pooka asked, “Say—how's Elsa enjoying her new books, by the way? I've been meaning to drop by.”  
  
“I bet you have,” Jack muttered, annoyance in full glare. He didn't bother to answer his question. _Stupid Bunny. Stupid books._  
  
Stupid Machiavelli.  
  
Bunny laughed, loud enough to draw attention from the others, and Jack's sullen glare only deepened; Bunnymund was much more of a _chuckling_ sort of guy, but apparently not at the moment. Jack caught Toothiana's curious eye and quickly glanced away.  
  
“I'm looking forward to her thoughts on it,” Bunny added between breathy laughs. He may or may not have been wiping a tear from his eye. “If there's one human whose got an mind for satire—it's Elsa.”  
  
“ELSA?” boomed North from across the hall. “JACK. DID SHE ENJOY HER BIRTHDAY GIFT?”  
  
Oh, for fuck's sake.  
  
“HO, HO! IT WAS CLEVER, NO?”  
  
“ _Birthday_ gift!” Bunny hissed. “Dammit—why didn't I think of that?”  
  
“No!” Jack snapped, rounding on Bunny—and then on North, who'd bounded his way across the main floor. Toothiana and Sandy were right behind him, curious and amused. “ _No!_ ” Jack repeated, almost desperately. “No more gifts! No more present wars! You two are not battling over—”  
  
“Say... THAT IS NOT BAD IDEA!”  
  
And dammit, he'd gone and messed shit up again.

. * * * .

“I fear they get a little more competitive every year,” Toothiana whispered, leaning in close. Jack swallowed, and tried not to look as weird as he felt. She was grinning at him, like she used to, and was lowering a hand. She'd used it to shield her whisper, Jack realized.  
  
“I'm not sure that's possible,” he answered, feeling a bit dazed, and Toothiana giggled into her hands. Something old and broken stuttered in his chest, and he let the feeling spread, slowly and uncertainly through the ice in his limbs.  
  
“You think anything will become of us?”  
  
Jack started, nearly dropping his staff to the floor. “Uh—what?”  
  
Toothiana looked at him strangely, very surprised and a little bit amused. “I asked, 'do you think anything will become of it?' Their gifting battle?”  
  
He forced his beating heart back into its cage. “Oh. Right.” Clearing his throat, he said, “I... really hope not. There's only so much I can do to prevent the rest of the kingdom from finding shit like an Xbox—you know?”  
  
Toothiana's laughter was the brightest he'd heard in a long time. She laughed long enough to make Jack think that perhaps she was laughing more because of a _need_ to laugh, rather than him being all that funny. He vaguely wondered how long it'd been since she'd been able to. Who else made her laugh, when he wasn't around? What kinds of things did she laugh about?  
  
 _You could be there for her,_ his mind whispered. _You could be here to make her laugh_.  
  
Jack kept those thoughts to himself, quiet and composed, and watched in resigned dismay as North and Bunnymund continued to argue over which kinds of chocolates Elsa liked best. He could learn to love Toothiana, he decided. He could love her eventually.  
  
He could love her very easily.

. * * * .  
  
But he kept that to himself.  
  
. * * * .


	90. - fly alone -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/19/14_. Finally getting back into the swing of the "work-class-social life-writing" combo! It's been over a year since I last took any classes, so it's been an interesting blast to the past of sorts as I readjust and pick back up all of my old study habits. It's been a busy, busy week. :P
> 
> SIX chapters for today! :) I could try to spread them out, but I think it'd be better to read them all at once. A huge thank you, again, to **SOCKS** and **ALISON** for beta-ing.  <3
> 
> And this is the last installment of the [1sentence](http://1sentenceorder.livejournal.com/1531.html) challenge. :( I may do another one... but I'd also like to try something new, too. This was theme set Alpha, but I have also completed Gamma and Epsilon for other fics. If you ever want a fun (and deceptively hard) writing challenge, I totally recommend it!

 

. * * * .  
  
\- fly alone -  
  
. * * * .

 **#41 – Completion:**   
Jack had known—had recognized, to an extent—that the days and weeks and months were becoming harder and harder to keep track of, and that certain things were getting missed along the way; somewhere along the line—sometime within only the last _year_ —Jamie graduated from college and— _somehow_ —Jack Frost hadn't been there.  
 **  
**#42 – Clouds:  
Toothiana's palace was always welcoming, despite—or perhaps _because_ of—all the little teeth fawning all over him all the time.  
 **  
#43 – Sky:  
** Regardless, Jack Frost was making a concentrated effort to show up more often, anyway (and if Tooth didn't ever believe that he just _happened_ to be in the neighborhood, then—well, that was okay, he guessed, because he probably wouldn't have believed it either).

 **#45 - Hell**  
Try as he might to appear otherwise, there were quite a many things—horrendous, _terrible_ things—that could get under Jack's skin, and _yet_ there was nothing quite so annoying—so nerve-gratingly _boring—_ as watching Princess Elsa write her monthly letter to Prince Henrik.  
 **  
#46 – Sun**  
“I _knew_ I shoulda killed Flynn Ryder when I had the—” (“ _Bunny!!_ ”)  
  
 **#47 – Moon:  
** “Well, if _Manny_ is on the moon, then shouldn't there be a woman for the sun?”  
  
 **#48 – Waves:**  
He could almost _taste_ them on the wind— _the salt and the brine, freedom and fun_ —but pretended he was content, settled back into his spot on the floor with Elsa's book in hand, and secretly daydreamed of the day he wouldn't have to fly alone.  
  
 **#49 – Hair:**  
Bunny would never, _ever_ know, but Jack had become quite adept at twisting a braid; Elsa rarely ever had to lift a finger.  
  
 **#50 – Supernova  
** Jack never offered any explanation for what happened that night he'd shown up on her windowsill with bloodied knuckles, and Elsa hadn't ever asked; in a way, he was sort of grateful ( _because it meant he wouldn't have to lie_ ).

. * * * .

 


	91. - mindin' summer -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/19/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _mindin' summe_ r -  
  
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. **B U N N Y M U N D**.

As promised, Bunny visited not long afterwards.  
  
And thankfully, he didn't come bearing gifts.  
  
Jack kept to himself at the window while the two of them talked, his head listing to the side every so often—mostly just to flaunt his boredom. Sometimes, though, Jack would watch the animated way Elsa moved her hands while she spoke, or watch the light that caught in her eyes when she and Bunny had some sort of debate. (And by _sometimes_ , what he actually meant was _most_ of the time.) He was only half-listening, and mostly-watching, when Bunny casually dropped Rapunzel's name in conversation.  
  
Jack sat up just as a broken whisper left Elsa's mouth, curious and awed and, “ _The_ Rapunzel? Of Corona?”  
  
His eyes blinked half a dozen times because, one: wasn't this against the rules? And two: wasn't this against the rules?  
  
“She doesn't remember me,” Bunny was explaining, very serious. And smiling. How did that work? “So if you ever meet her, she won't know a lick about me other than what she can recall from storybooks, but... I think you'd like her.”  
  
Jack stared in amazement as Elsa took Bunny's words to heart. “Thank you,” she said softly, gently nodding. “I hope I get the chance to meet her one day.”  
  
Bunny smiled, a toothy half-grin that would have made Jack proud, had he not been staring gloomily from afar.  
  
His gaze was clever, and his voice was smooth with warmth, when Bunny replied, “I Hope so, too.”  
  
Jack rolled his eyes.

. * * * .

“You really think Elsa and Rapunzel will meet one day?”  
  
Bunny took a moment before answering. “I don't see why not. They're from allied kingdoms, after all.”  
  
“Hm. Yeah.”  
  
Never mind the fact that Rapunzel was free, and Elsa was not. Never mind the fact that Elsa was growing stronger every day, and nobody bothered to notice. Not the King, nor the Queen—not anybody.  
  
Jack wanted to ask Bunny what he was supposed to do—( _if her_ parents _won't see how in control she is, then how will anybody_ else _?_ )—and what could he say to help Elsa break from from all the invisible chains still weighing her down? He wanted to ask how he could keep track of everyone and everything so easily, without losing the details—because _Bunny_ never missed things like graduation ceremonies, or Christmas presents, or the simple, happy moments in between. How did he do it? How could Jack do it, too?  
  
“Any other celebrations coming up, mate?”  
  
“What?” Jack turned toward him, not having been listening. Bunny noticed.  
  
“I _said_ , 'are there any other celebrations coming up?' You know. Balls and things.”  
  
Jack barely resisted a snort. “Yeah, right. The King has the country on lockdown for _at least_ another year. There's not a chance in hell that Rapunzel and Elsa will be meeting at any soirees anytime soon.”  
  
“Hm,” Bunny tutted. “Well... if you say so.”  
  
Jack turned toward him, intrigued.  
  
“What was that? What was that all-knowing tone you just used?”  
  
“I don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
“You know _exactly_ talking about, you giant Pooka. What do you know that I don't?”  
  
“Would you like a list?”  
  
“You know what? Forget it,” Jack huffed. “Probably not that important, anyway. And if it is—bah. I'll just figure it out when it happens.”  
  
Bunny's quiet chuckling grated over his nerves, which told Jack that if there _was_ anything he should know about—it was probably good news.  
  
Probably.  
  
“Just know this, kid... As much as you might prefer the Antarctic, somethin' tells me you won't be mindin' summer so much this year. There's a good bit of news I expect we'll be hearing in just a few months. For all of us.”  
  
Jack turned back curiously, but didn't actually give Bunny the satisfaction of any sort of question.  
  
 _Summer?_ What was so good about summertime? What typically happened in the—?  
  
“Oh, _shit._ I just realized,” Jack Frost blurted out, eyes wide. “Anna's turning fifteen this year.” His eyes widened further. “That's _it—_ isn't it? Anna's fifteenth birthday! That's how old Elsa was when her parents started planning for _her_ Coming of Age party!”  
  
Bunny blinked, taken surprise by Jack's sudden enthusiasm. “My lips are sealed,” he said suddenly, vehemently, with a look not unlike _oh, fuckin' shit, what have I bloody done now?  
  
_ Though Jack's mind may have been paraphrasing. _  
  
“Fuck!_ ” Jack exalted, brimming with excitement. This changed _everything_. Anna was turning fifteen! She'd be introduced into society the following year, just like Elsa was—she could attend banquets and balls. Travel overseas with her parents, should they ever get around to actually _going_ somewhere. They would host another ball— _there,_ at the castle—and it would be all about Anna. And Elsa would be allowed to come.  
  
It was perfect.  
  
“Bunny, I could _kiss_ you.”  
  
“Please don't.”

. * * * .


	92. - break a -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/19/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _(so many_  
 _different ways to)_  
 _\- break a -_  
 _(heart)_

 

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. * * * .

And, despite Jack's best efforts—  
  
Elsa ended up figuring out a couple of things on her own.  
  
. * * * .

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. * * * .  
  
. **S I B L I N G S** . 

“You're not alone in this, you know,” he tried, thinking of California Girl and her little Michigan Brother. “I mean—siblings drift apart all the time. It's natural. It doesn't mean that it'll be, like—you know. _Forever_.”  
  
“Jack... If I want to know what kind of day she's having, I have to ask you. I have to ask you if I want to know _anything—_ and she lives down the hall. Explain to me how that is normal.”  
  
Jack frowned.  
  
“I'm just saying,” he said, more of a reflex than anything else. He felt a little wounded, which was stupid.  
  
“And _I'm_ saying that the facts don't change—no matter how nicely you try to spin them.”  
  
“Look, I get it—okay? If anybody's gonna get it, it's _me_. But you gotta stop beating yourself up, too. I mean—you're doing this for _her_.”

( _Just wait,_ he wanted to tell her. _Wait until this summer, when Anna turns fifteen—you'll see_.  
  
 _Things will only get better._ ) 

“And what good does that do her _now_?” Elsa retorted, eyes bright and voice sharp. “She can't understand because she doesn't _know_. I can't imagine how all these years have looked to her... My father refuses to host another ball for _at least_ a year, and he has no pressing faraway engagements for me to accompany him, _conveniently._ He won't even let me _try_. No opportunities to prove myself,” Elsa scoffed, sharp and bitter, and then,“The only time I ever see her is when she goes out to the gardens.”  
  
And for the first time in a long time—  
  
Jack stayed silent.  
  
He was learning the hard way that helping Elsa was becoming less and less about what _he_ could say to make things okay, and more about listening to what she needed to get off her chest. Even if it meant taking the brunt of it.

( _Or all of it._ )

Elsa deflated a little, right in front of him.  
  
“Look, Jack,” she sighed. “I'm sorry... I don't mean to—”  
  
“It's fine,” he said quickly, brushing her apology off. He was looking into his lap, though, which couldn't be very convincing, so he plastered on a half-smile and looked up her, just a little. She wasn't buying it.  
  
But he still really wasn't expecting it, when she scooted forward on the window seat and took Jack's hands in hers. They were very soft, and shockingly cold; Jack looked up at her face, suddenly terrified that it might have been unintentional—but Elsa looked to be in just as much control as ever.  
  
Maybe even more so.  
  
“Jack... It's just that,” Elsa paused, and Jack almost jumped—actually jerked back, just a little—when her thumbs ran themselves over his palms. He stared down in fascination, watching as she played with his hands. “I froze a part of her,” he heard her whisper, as the pads of her fingertips made another gentle swipe. “You know? But... I don't know how to make up for it. I don't know how to fix it—other than what I'm doing now... Or when.  
  
“Do you think that—maybe—sometimes a frozen heart might not be such a dangerous thing?”  
  
Jack tore his eyes away from their hands, staring up at her in surprise. “What do you mean?” he breathed, licking his dry lips.  
  
Her shoulders shifted slightly, a not-quite shrug that had Jack's brows furrowing in dismay. “I don't know,” she whispered, and Jack actually felt Elsa tighten her hold. “Maybe... it might not be such a terrible thing.”  
  
“You said terrible that time,” Jack noticed, ducking his head down to see hers. “Terrible and dangerous don't always mean the same thing, and... I'm confused. Why are we talking about frozen hearts?”  
  
“I've been wondering lately... figuratively, of course... There just seems to be so many different ways to break a heart. It makes me wonder what forces other than magic it could take to freeze one,” Elsa admitted, through a small, brittle laugh. “And whether it might be worth it.”  
  
Jack's hands gripped hers, swift and sudden. Elsa's eyes lifted to meet his, sharp and clear, and strangely terrifying.  
  
“Elsa,” Jack called quietly, holding tight. “Worth _what?_ ”  
  
A sigh escaped her, long and ragged. Jack resisted the urge to lean closer, to better look at her face. He let her squeeze his hands until he could no longer feel them.  
  
“I don't know,” Elsa whispered, staring out the window. “I don't really know, anymore.”

. * * * .


	93. - the point -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/19/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- the point -_  
  
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. * * * .  
  
  . **T H E    Q U E E N** .

 

“ _Mom_ —I just don't _get_ politics. Why all the ulterior motives? Why can't we just be honest about what we want?”  
  
It was early morning brunch, and Jack was hanging out by the window, as invisible as ever. The one topic Anna had insisted that she and her mother avoid was, of course, the only topic they'd discussed thus far.  
  
“This history stuff just doesn't make sense to me. Like—how am I supposed to apply any of this stuff to the _now_?”  
  
“It just takes practice, my dear,” the Queen said calmly, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Experience is often our greatest teacher.”  
  
Jack watched Anna as she absently pushed a biscuit around her plate. He knew exactly what Anna was thinking.

( _Elsa_ _didn't need experience_. )

The Queen's private parlor was an open room with light walls and cushioned seats, large windows and lots of sunlight. Her favored rosemaling décor lined the fabric in every corner of the room, and the dining ware that housed Anna's growing mountain of crumbs was elegant, yet simple. Gold-rimmed plates and clear glass goblets. Anna picked off a bit of muffin and stuck it in her mouth.  
  
“ _Anna_ ,” said the Queen, and Jack stiffened right along with the Princess; if there was one thing Jack inherently recognized, it was a mother's scolding tone. Anna dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and offered a small smile, contrite and polite, and it was totally unnecessary, because the Queen was plucking out a tiny bit of muffin from between her fingers and popping it into her mouth. A moment passed, and then the two of them broke out into bright, contagious laughter.  
  
Jack grinned right along with them, taking a chance by perching at the far end of the table. Well. Above it, anyway. Invisible or not—whether he'd ever tell her or _not_ —he wasn't sure Elsa wold approve of him putting his feet on her family's table.  
  
“Anna,” began the Queen, slowly lifting a knife to spread marmalade over her biscuit. “Tell me about your dance lessons. Have you been enjoying them?”  
  
 _Dance lessons?_ Jack Frost perked up—a little too literally, actually—and forced himself to hover down closer to the table. _Dance lessons!  
  
_ Anna wasn't looking as thrilled.  
  
“I _would_ be enjoying them,” Anna answered sullenly. “If I had somebody I could practice with.”  
  
“Well, what about your father?”  
  
“ _Please_ , mother—I can't dance with him _all_ the time!” More quietly, she added, “And he's too busy, anyways.”  
  
“Well, what about Pavel? I'm sure he'd be willing to assist you.”  
  
 _Pavel?_  
  
“Oh, don't worry—Olga's already insisted that he do just that,” Anna replied, trying to remain stern, but laughing halfway through. “He's not much of a ballroom dancer, but it was nice to dance out in the gardens.”  
  
Oh, god. Jack's eyes widened.

Pavel, the _groundskeeper._ (That was his _name_ ?)  
  
Jack choked back a hacking cough at the memory of that one time he accidentally caught Olga and _Pavel_ in an empty broom closet in the south wing, and rammed the length of his staff into his forehead to block it out. Ugh.

So much for swiping a biscuit later.  
  
“—just really looking forward to having a chance to _use_ them,” Anna was saying, and she was doing that thing with her hands again, where she slipped her nervous fingers through a fist. “I mean—I know that you and father have to discuss the possibility of—the thing, but, it _would_ , you know, only be something that I've been _dreaming_ of since I was, say— _four._ ”  
  
Jack awaited the Queen's answer just as anxiously as Anna did, all bated breath and lip-biting and impatient stiffness. He shook himself out of it when the Queen took another calm sip of tea, and then he floated to Anna's side; if she shivered, then Jack pretended not to notice it.  
  
“You know that your father and I have occasionally discussed the possible arrangements for your introduction for quite some time,” she began evenly, and Jack found himself leaning forward over the silverware and gripping the icy handle of his staff. Much the same way Anna was throttling the table linens.  
  
“Yes,” Anna nodded. “Yes, of course.”  
  
The Queen took a moment to look her daughter over, a soft, quiet gaze. She was smiling almost, but was obviously holding back, and Jack couldn't help but wonder why. (Had he ever seen her smile,  _really_ , now that he thought about it? When was the last time he actually saw it—unbridled and free? If ever?) Was she afraid of getting Anna's hopes up? ( _Is she thinking of Elsa, alone in her room?_ ) Anna didn't seem to notice the contradictions painted over her mother's face, the hesitation and the sadness coupled with a thin veil of Hope, the unwritten apology swirling in her eyes. (In a rare moment of recognition, Jack saw immediately where Elsa's thoughtfulness had come from, clear as day in the curves and edges of her mother's face... but where Elsa's gaze was sharp, and bright with clarity—  
  
The Queen's was clouded, almost to the point of dullness.)  
  
She took another delicate sip of tea, and quietly offered, “I think it's time _we_ start broaching the subject to your father again.”  
  
An automatic _Yes!_ hissed through his gut as he curled forward, pumping a fist into his side, and a ferocious laugh broke through him, half a second later, when he saw that Anna had literally done the same.  
  
His laughter continued, light and genuine and warm, like a comfortable weight in his stomach. Anna offered up a nervous apology and a grateful _thank you_ , tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear; her mother nodded once, like she was scolding her daughter's impropriety, and raised her teacup high, smiling like she loved her.

. * * * .  
  
Anna's giddy excitement was contagious.  
  
It was no wonder, then, when he followed her around for the rest of the morning.  
  
. * * * .


	94. - how lovely -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/19/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- how lovely -_  
  
. * * * .

Jack was very grateful to say that whatever it was that passed over Elsa in that rare moment of pain was gone. He wasn't all that convinced, at first, even as the days rolled on. She never brought it up, and he never really asked, but he could see it in the way she held herself, and the look in her eye when she brought her magic to life. She was determined once more, and it was like learning to dance all over again—only stronger—because this was about so much more than training for a ball; Jack was pretty sure they were training for the _world_ , and that was something he was still trying to wrap his head around.  
  
Unleashing his magic always brought a humming, exciting urgency to his bones, no matter how many times he'd done it, and sharing his magic with _Elsa_ had always meant so much more than just painting a couple of snowflakes through the air. And now that she was making it _with_ him—and not just making it like she used to, but really _designing_ it herself, and enjoying it, creating and inventing new shapes that he'd never dreamed of, and controlling the fractals with such precision and finesse, challenging  _him_ to step up _his_ game—well. Jack figured there probably couldn't be anything better about being a Guardian than that.  
  
The point was that whatever weighed down Elsa in that one, terrifying moment wasn't there anymore. _Elsa_ was back, and... whatever it was, it was gone.  
  
 _Or buried,_ his mind whispered. (But if that were the case, even then, Jack couldn't really do anything about it.  
  
Except just to stick around.)

. * * * .

Life strolled further into the end of February without any grand events, and Jack Frost tried his hardest to push down the nagging feeling of _something's wrong_ for as long as he could. Left without many options, he tried bringing it up at one of his growing-ever-more-frequent Guardian meetings, but it didn't help that he couldn't exactly _explain_ the nagging feeling, either.  
  
( _“Trust your belly, Jack! What does it tell you?_ ”)  
  
It told him that he needed to stop bringing this shit up to so many wackos all at once.  
  
That was the same night when Bunnymund had the grand idea of commenting—in passing, to _him,_ and not to the Guardians as a _whole—_ on how beautiful Elsa was becoming. This brought on an entire discussion on all of the finer, detailed nuances of Elsa's complex, awe-inspiring, _apparently-not-even-five-fucking-thousand-words-are-enough-to-describe-it_ beauty in question, and who was the more observant of the group—(“ _I complimented her loveliness first! At Christmas!”_ )—( _Actually_ , corrected Sandy, _Toothiana brought it during last year's retreat at the Warren._ )—(“ _Quiet, Sandy!”_ )—and seriously, these nut-jobs were _Guardians?  
  
_ ( _"She's like Rapunzel, y'know? She's got that fire in her, wit sharp as a knife, but Elsa's got a grace about her, very regal. She's a beauty, just like the rest of her lineage, and she's got a grasp on the throne of sass like I ain't ever seen before. I bet she'd get along with Merida just fine."  
  
"Are you sure, Bunny? I can't imagine they'd know what to do with one another!"  
  
"Trust me, Tooth—just put a plate of bilberries in front of both of them, and they'd be fine. Maybe some cakes, too. Say—I wonder if Rapunzel's learned how to make those bilberry tarts? _ ")  
  
Even Sandy lauded how kind Elsa was growing up to be, even with all of the hardships of loneliness she'd faced—which Jack didn't really appreciate the implications of, but whatever—and how warm and gentle she truly was. They all kept commenting on how wonderful Elsa was and yeah, Jack saw it too, but he'd always seen it. He saw _Elsa_ , which, _yeah_ , included the thick, blinding hair and the magic and the big blue eyes, and _yeah_ —all of it. (North just _couldn't resist_ repeating, one more time, how lovely she'd become, and seriously, for the love of all things frost, Jack _knew_ Elsa was beautiful.)  
  
What he didn't understand was why everyone felt the need to keep bringing it up.  
  
“ _Holy_ fractal, can we focus now? Please? I'm trying to do a job here!”  
  
And, eventually, they got back on track.  
  
Mostly.

. * * * .  
  
"Have you _seen_ her smile, by the way? _Gorgeous_ incisors on that girl.  
Honestly, her teeth are some of the—"  
  
" _Toothiana_. "  
  
. * * * .


	95. - the clouds -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/19/14_. Last one for today. Enjoy it. ;)
> 
> In the meantime, please check out [the latest gorgeous doodle](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/85936156552/the-rest-of-the-castle-had-fallen-asleep-hours) from **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)**. So beautiful!  <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- the clouds -_  
  
. * * * .

.

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. * * * .  
  
. **H E N R I K** .

 

Elsa had become pretty good at entertaining herself throughout the years of isolation, and had used her many waking hours to establish a number of rather impressive hobbies. She played piano—(“ _Piano_ forte, _Jack, you always forget.”_ ) _—_ but never for him, and she read her books, and she challenged herself in chess. She wrote in her journal often—which he was never allowed to see—and she actually became pretty adept at sketching the landscapes beyond her window.  
  
Jack couldn't help but think that Elsa and Rapunzel really would get along, if they did ever get the chance to meet; Elsa would enjoy the candle-making, _he_ would enjoy all the baked goods, Rapunzel would probably appreciate having some hair to braid, and Jack was pretty sure he was speaking for everyone when he said that they could all do without the ventriloquy.  
  
But still.  
  
“Hey, did you know that ice harvesting was actually a huge business for us, too?” Jack asked over his shoulder, idly turning a page in the book spread out before him. Although the floor was his preferred lounging spot, the bed wasn't too shabby; the duvet made a wonderful resting spot for the book to lay upon while he hovered over it. Jack reached down and turned another page. “Actually,” Jack muttered, excitement slightly dimmed. His eyes roamed the photographs of modern manufactured ice companies, catching on strange slogans and gimmicks and _20 lbs. for only $3.99!_ Frowning, Jack added, “It looks like it still is.”  
  
And then it came.  
  
Jack's least favorite part of the month.  
  
Olga knew enough by now that she wouldn't get much more out of Elsa than a grateful smile, but that didn't stop the old governess from dawdling her way out the door; Elsa received her fancy envelope with a kind nod and a graceful hand, and then set it gently to the side of her desk, immediately resuming her reading. Olga nearly burst with ill-concealed anticipation at the sight. Every time.  
  
“If milady will be needing anything else...”  
  
“No thank you, Olga.”  
  
“Perhaps—would her Majesty enjoy a spot of tea?”  
  
“No thank you, Olga. I am quite fine without, and must really continue with my studies...”  
  
“Nosy Olga,” Jack muttered, almost fondly, as the door clicked shut and—as soon as they were left alone—Jack swooped down on the desk and snatched the letter from its home. “So what's Sideburns got to say this time?”  
  
“Not any business of _yours_ ,” Elsa quipped, gently slipping the letter out from between his fingers. Jack let the letter go easily—it wasn't technically _his—_ but he didn't exactly do it with a smile, either.  
  
“No, but it's _your_ business, which is—as you might agree—sorta my business. So read it.”  
  
“What if I want to finish this chapter first?”  
  
Jack scowled.  
  
“You're not fooling anybody,” he deadpanned, growing frustrated. “C'mon. Open it up.”  
  
“It's a very engaging chapter.”  
  
“It's about sea trade,” Jack replied snippily, having noted Elsa's tiny timbre of laughter. “You've read it all before. Now come on—seriously. Open the letter.”  
  
With a sigh of defeat, Elsa gave Jack a narrowed-eyed look—which Jack returned heartily—and carefully slid her index finger under the delicate flap of the intricate envelope, the family crest sealed in wax. Her hands were shaking slightly.  
  
Jack snuck a peek at Elsa's profile as she slipped the letter from its carrier, but couldn't get a clear read on what she was feeling. Excitement, definitely, because receiving any sort of correspondence was a great privilege, and anticipation, he guessed, because this happened every month, and delight, probably, because apparently this Henrik guy had a way with words.  
  
 _Whatever._  
  
Was she nervous about what it'd say? What would she have to be nervous about?  
  
He didn't realize that he was hovering—literally—over her shoulder until she pressed the folded letter to her chest, and archly asked, “Would you mind?”  
  
 _Not at all.  
_  
Instead, sulking, Jack Frost swerved his way back over to the bed. He let himself fall onto the covers with a loud, defeated _oomf,_ and covered his arm cover his eyes dramatically. He peeked out from underneath his sleeve to see if Elsa was still laughing at his antics, but her eyes were transfixed on the letter in her hands.  
  
Out from beneath of the fabric of his sleeve, Jack watched as Elsa curled herself into her chair... her feet tucked themselves close to her hips, and her knees fell comfortably against the armrest. Her long dress covered her feet, and the simple ballet slippers she wore. The letter rested in her lap, and a smile curled over her lips.  
  
Jack forced himself to look at the underside of the bed's canopy instead.  
  
“Henrik is celebrating his birthday this month,” Elsa shared, and Jack rolled his eyes—mostly confident that she couldn't see him do it. “In just a few days, he'll be celebrating his twenty-first.”  
  
Jack's head lifted up from the duvet, straining awkwardly to look at her. “His _what?_ ” Jack demanded.  
  
“His twenty-first. Jack... surely you're not _that_ surprised?”  
  
Um.  
  
He was _very_ surprised, thank you very much.  
  
Twenty- _what_ ?  
  
“Elsa—he's practically an old man!”  
  
“Jack... he's only four years older than I.”  
  
“ _Four_ years— _only_ four years?”  
  
“It is not so great a distance, when you think of the length of commitment,” Elsa reasonably explained, tilting her head to the side in thought. “Nor when you consider the number of marriages in our world, many of which flaunt even greater age discrepancies than what can be found between Henrik and I.”  
  
( _Between Henrik and I_.)  
  
“Seriously, Elsa—this doesn't bother you?” Jack insisted, stomach turning. “I mean, think about it. This guy was four-years-old when you were _born_.”  
  
“Actually, he was three; he turned four about five weeks later.”  
  
“That is totally beside my point.”  
  
“What is your point?”  
  
“My _point_ is—my point is. It's just. It's sort of _weird_ that your potential suitor is so much older, isn't it?”

(And _hooooooly shit—_  
He was going to hypocrite hell,  
because if the number of years separating him and _the Queen_  
wasn't enough to make a Guardian dizzy, then _—_ )

Jack swallowed, uneasily.  
  
Elsa considered this for a moment, completely unaware to Jack's inner-turmoil. “It's interesting,” she began, mulling it over, and Jack tried not to do anything stupid.  
  
Like blurt out the fact that her mother was _really,_ inconveniently attractive.  
  
Did it matter that Jack could logically admit that he wasn't really interested in his stupid, boyish fantasties of her anymore?  
  
Apparently not.  
  
Because she was still _really_ , inconveniently attractive.  
  
“Most of the eligible bachelors in our kingdoms are actually close to Henrik's age, if not slightly older... I don't suppose I know of many matches in your world, so I'm afraid I don't have much understanding of what is considered acceptable according to your norms... If Henrik and I would seem an unusual kind of pair in your world, then I suppose I understand your concern, but I for one don't mind the idea of having older suitors.”  
  
Jack let those words sink in.  
  
“Oh,” he mumbled, and flicked a piece of lint off the the bedspread. “Well... all right, then.”  
  
The lint got caught on the fibers, and refused to let go. He froze it on the spot.

. * * * .

“So what do you see in this guy, anyway?” Jack blurted sometime later, when he could bear the latest silence no longer. Seriously. She'd read the letter at least four times already. Did she really have to read it a fifth? Seventh?  
  
At all?  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Well, like—what do you like about him?”  
  
“You mean—why do I favor Henrik over the others?”  
  
 _Ugh._ “Yeah.”  
  
He wasn't sure if it'd better to look at her, or to keep staring at the bed hangings.  
  
He opted for the curtains.  
  
“I admire his cleverness, for one,” Elsa admitted, her voice trickling over from across the room. “His wit is very sharp, but not cutting. And he has a fine way with words, as well—I can always enjoy a conversation with him on any number of topics, and feel that I have both learned something and have offered something to be learned. I also enjoy his polite demeanor and calm patience... and I've read much about his efforts in philanthropy. His experience as an heir is very impressive.”  
  
“I'm sure.”  
  
“Furthermore, my father is very fond of _his_ father, and he holds a great deal of respect for Prince Henrik.”  
  
Yeah, because the _King_ was such a great bucket of judgment.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Ah—” Jack's head swiveled toward hers, stiff with a wince. “Nothing,” he told her, looking her straight in the eye, in the hopes that she wouldn't catch him lying.  
  
She caught him.

“He's also quite handsome,” she casually supplied, voice smooth as silk, eyes dark with devious light, and _yeah_ , all right, so maybe he was being a bit of a dick, and maybe he deserved this one. ( _Touche_ , _your highness._  
  
 _Tou. Che.)_  
  
“That guy?” Jack rolled his eyes, but held in his scoff. Barely. “Please. I've seen better sideburns on a monkey.”  
  
Elsa reared back, looking at him strangely, and okay, _shit,_ this was totally not the right way to go about this. He would _not_ earn himself any brownie points by being petty. ( _All right. Reel it in, Jack. Nice and smooth. Nice. Nice and—_ )  
  
“Uh. What I _mean_ is—”  
  
“You don't think Prince Henrik is handsome?”  
  
(— _ugghhhh._ )  
  
Jack muttered toward the ceiling and all the grand opulence the bed canopy had to offer, with barely-concealed disdain, “I think his sideburns _literally_ overshadow anything else that I might have noticed about his face,” then slapped on a grumbled, “ _To be honest_.”  
  
“Hm. Perhaps. But it's not just one's face that can be handsome.”  
  
Jack's head whipped around to face her— _cheek scraping along the duvet, eyes wide_ —but nothing was amiss; Elsa was still tucked into her chair, placidly looking over her letter. ( _She didn't mean.... does that mean...?_ ) _  
  
_She was smirking.  
  
“ _Elsa—!_ ” Jack nearly hissed, shocked and grimacing.  
  
Was she laughing at him? She was totally laughing at him.  
  
 _“Ugh..._ seriously? _Uggghhhh,”_ Jack groaned, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. His cheeks felt like they should have been burning. His ears _were_ burning, possibly, or ringing, and his head felt like it was caving in—until he removed his hands. “Dammit, Elsa!” he muttered, not quite ready to lower his guard. “This is a topic we _avoid_ from now on,” he roughly declared, feeling thoroughly, inexorably _ruffled._ His hand shot through his hair, wild and agitated.  
  
(This was a topic _she_ should avoid from now on—starting immediately. It made his skin _crawl_ to hear her talk like this—no matter how politely subtle her allusion was.  
  
Or wasn't.)  
  
“ _Oh_ , Jack—” Elsa was laughing again, but this time it held a note of apology. “Please forgive me. It's so rare that I can bring that expression to your face these days, and I _have_ missed it so.”  
  
One hand was holding tight to the other over his forehead, so he was all the more aware of the slight twitch to his left eyebrow. He planted a stoic front, thinned his lips with grim satisfaction, and decided that he could very likely commit to spending the entire rest of the night expression _less_ .  
  
And then the stern line of his mouth relaxed almost instinctively a few moments later, actually, when a sharp rap of paper hitting an antique, wooden desk greeted his ears; Jack's head turned slightly over the comforter, taking great interest in the realization that Elsa had gently tossed the letter to her desk and shifted in her seat to face him fully.  
  
Jack let his smile tip up just a bit more and asked, warningly low, “Are you admitting to intentionally trying to get a rise out of me?”  
  
Elsa shrugged, soft and sweet, and more than a little sheepish.  
  
“Only a little,” she smiled, apology fading fast.  
  
Jack Frost was admittedly, begrudgingly, impressed.  
  
He was at the desk not a moment later, grasping her small hands in his—(“ _Jack, I still need to study!”_ )—and leading her over to the bed. Her feet touched the ground; his did not. When her thighs made contact with the edge, he toppled her over and onto the duvet, then dropped himself onto the sea of blankets next to her, letting his calves dangle off the edge just as hers did.  
  
“You know what I think?” Jack tilted his head toward hers, once their laughter had subsided. Elsa shifted her gaze to match.  
  
“What?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, already prepared for retaliation. Her smirk was still in place, and Jack grinned wider.  
  
But he still paused, just for a moment, before he revealed what was on his mind.  
  
“I think half the reason you study so much while I'm here is because you like it when I drag you away from your books,” he admitted, masking the warmth in his chest with an impish grin. Elsa let out a bark of laughter, loud and disbelieving and so uncharacteristic that Jack had no choice but to believe that he'd hit the nail on the head.

. * * * .  
  
.

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.  
  
( _The laugher did not end there,_  
 _nor did the barbs and the banter,_  
 _the witty jabs and cleverly-composed taunts._

_._

_._

_._

_._  
  
 _Yet it was a while before Jack realized_  
 _just how much it meant to him_  
 _that Elsa no longer hid_  
 _behind a hand_  
 _when she_  
 _laughed._ )  
  
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“Wait... Jack, what did you just say?”  
  
“I—er. I said what? What did I say?”  
  
“You... you said that you _had_.”  
  
“Had. Had what?”  
  
“So, then... you _have_ kissed someone before?”  
  
“ _What?_ _I_ said that?”  
  
“Yes. Just now.”  
  
“Uh. No, I didn't.”  
  
“But... you did. Just now.”  
  
"I didn't."  
  
"Jack. You _did_."  
  
“ _I_ —ah. Great. Okay, well. Yeah, _ah_ , well—you see. _Funny_ thing, but—”  
  
“So you have?”  
  
“Well, I— _no._ ”  
  
 _Um_ —  
  
How in the _seven fucking frosted_ _hells_ had he let _that_ slip?  
  
“I mean yes.”  
  
One minute they were talking about her training, and then springtime,  
and then hairy Henrik again, and then rumors of Rapunzel proposing, and then fishermen, and the _next_ —  
  
“I _mean_ —it was a long, _long_ time ago, and it was only once—”  
  
 _Oh_ —  
  
“—and dude, it's not like I even remember her _name_ , or—”  
  
— _fuck_.

. * * * .

  
“But you _have_ kissed someone,” Elsa repeated, sliding closer. Her eyes were bright with curiosity. Fuck. Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck, _fuck._ “And you remember it now? Will you please tell me what it was like?” she breathed.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“Elsa, I'm not—I'm not _talking_ about this with you,” he declared, ignoring the fringes of panic.  
  
“You wish to be polite?”  
  
“What?” _Um._ _I don't think so?_ “Polite how?”  
  
“Polite, so as not to break your confidence with this young woman.”  
  
 _Young woman?_ And no, Jack didn't think it counted as breaking confidence when the girl had been dead for almost four centuries and had existed on another planet and _ahh_ , shit, he should have just said yes. She would have accepted that answer.  
  
“Uhh?”  
  
“So... it's only with me that you will not share?”  
  
“ _No!_ ” Jack exclaimed, fierce and sudden, as uneasy, incredulous laughter bubbled up to the surface. That look of dejection on her face was something he never wanted to see again, _ever_ , but: “I won't share it with _anyone._ ”  
  
“Would you share it with Bunny?”  
  
“Ah _—especially_ not with Bunny.”  
  
Elsa considered this. “So you are a gentleman,” she said softly, smirking.  
  
 _Oh, god_.  
  
“I—that's debatable.”  
  
“Are you embarrassed?”  
  
 _Am I—?_ What the hell kind of question was that. “If I say yes, will you let it drop?”  
  
There was a long moment of silence. Elsa was smiling at him.  
  
She ducked her head down close, as if his humiliation weren't clear enough already, and whispered, “What if I were to offer something in return?”  
  
Jack Frost stiffened.  
  
“Return for... what?” he asked warily, caged like an animal. He found himself instinctively leaning away. His senses were on high alert. Elsa was becoming rather unpredictable, and he wasn't sure he knew where this was going. (Sure, she'd asked him about love once, but fucking really, since _when_ was she interested in his kissing history?  
  
Since when did she even _know_ about kissing?)  
  
Jack was trying very hard not to freak out.  
  
“The _story_ ,” Elsa smiled easily, like this was some kind of new game. And Jack realized it a fraction too late, but—it was. “Would you share the story of your first kiss if I were to offer something just as meaningful?”  
  
 _Meaningful._ Was a quick description of a goodbye kiss behind a barn really that important to her? It was important to _him_ , of course, but he was the one who'd been doing the so-called kissing, so he didn't get why—  
  
“O–offer?” Jack stuttered, as her words caught up to his brain. His breath stilled in his lungs. His fingers clenched over the muscles of his stomach.  
  
His eyes dropped to her mouth.  
  
“I understand if you'd rather not,” she said softly.  
  
Jack's brain went blank.  
  
“— _Elsa_ ,” he croaked, stiff with shock. His tongue had glued itself to the ridge behind his teeth. “I don't... think that's such a—a good idea.”  
  
There was a long moment, silent and tense, in which Jack could only hear the hammering of his heart. ( _They were still lying side-by-side on the bed. Why hadn't he moved?_ ) His palms felt clammy. Could that still happen? No. He was imagining that. ( _What the fuck is going—?_ ) He was imagining the heat on his cheeks, too, if not the cotton mouth, and Jack swallowed again, swallowed down the sudden, bitter awkwardness and disappointment—Jack Frost could _bleed_ , but he couldn't blush?  
  
Was that a blessing in disguise, or just a blessing?  
  
“That's all right,” Elsa said finally, shifting back slightly. His eyes jumped to hers, and he realized with a start that he could see her whole face—every flicker of emotion and light. She looked faintly disappointed, yet unsurprised. Jack was going to have a hernia. “On second thought... I'm not so sure I was actually all that willing, anyway.”  
  
Jack reared back immediately.  
  
“Why not?” he demanded roughly, before he realized how stupid he'd sound. He cleared his throat harshly, hoping to take out the edge.  
  
He winced at the violent flop of his stomach.  
  
Elsa looked at him strangely, which made _him_ look at _her_ strangely. “Well,” she began, a subtle arch to her brow. “You've been wanting to... well,” Elsa cleared her throat, more subtly, and Jack's eyes widened, almost painfully. “To hear me sing,” she finished, watching him earnestly. “Haven't you?”  
  
His jaw dropped.  
  
“You're going to sing for me?” he half-whispered, half-blurted, heart jumping in his chest.  
  
“Well... I—”

“ _Fucking._ .. fucking _finally!”_  
  
“Jack—I _was_ ,” she corrected gently, as Jack's delicate world came to a halt. “But it's better that I don't. It seems like such a silly thing to exchange for a story, anyway, and I should really know better than to go digging up your past. I'm sorry, Jack.”  
 _  
Wait a minute._  
 _  
_“Wait. So... You're _not_ going to sing to me?”  
  
“ _For_ you. Not _to_ you. And no. Not yet.”  
  
“Wait—but you _will?_ ” Jack leaned forward again, fresh Hope on his tongue. His eyes clouded almost immediately after, and they narrowed. “Wait—why not now?”  
  
She gaped at him, utterly flummoxed. He gaped right back, exaggerating his flummoxedness. He was obviously the more flummoxed, here.  
  
“ _Jack!_ ” she nearly hissed, incredulous. “We just discussed this!”  
  
“Discussed _what?_ ”  
  
“You're serious?” she deadpanned. When Jack responded with a not-too flattering expression of bafflement, to really drive home his point, Elsa huffed and repeated, “In exchange for the tale of your first kiss, due to whatever strange and morbid curiosity inexplicably came over me just now, I was going to—well— _sing_.”  
  
“ _Wait_... that's—that's what you were offering?”  
  
“Well. Yes. I... To let you hear it— _possibly_ —if you were interested, or—I don't know!” she flushed prettily. “It was a foolish trade.”  
  
Jack stared at the blush blooming over her cheeks, and felt quite strongly that his should have been doing the same.  
  
“ _That's_ what you were offering?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , for goodness' sake, Jack!” she cried impatiently. “Where in heaven's name have you been for the last five minutes?”  
  
“I don't know!” he defended hotly. “I was embarrassed! I didn't know what the hell was going on!”  
  
A sharp moment of awkwardness and confusion and uncertain waiting, and then it was over.  
  
Elsa laughed, long and hard. “Oh, Jack,” she sighed affectionately, laughing still. Her hands were clutching at her stomach, instead of covering her smile. “What are we going to do with you? Your mind is always in the clouds.” And then she laughed some more.  
  
The sounds of it washed over him, dizzy and distant; Jack nodded along, laughing uneasily. A hollow, sinking feeling was worming through his gut.  
  
“Clouds,” he muttered.

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“Right.”

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 _Or_ , Jack thought, swallowing hard.  
If he was willing to admit it...  
  
(His stomach gave a sickening lurch.)

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. * * * .  
  
It might have been in the gutter.  
  
. * * * .


	96. - so much -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/20/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- so much -_  
 _(worse)_  
  
. * * * .

Everest was too cliché, so he went to Kilimanjaro instead.  
  
Thirteen hours since his swift departure from Arendelle, and here he was, sitting on a bank of ice and snow at the top of one Tanzania's finest peaks; legs bent, elbows splayed across he knees, his staff a comfortable weight across his lap, and a head full of a never-ending blizzard of fucked-up, confusing, mind-boggling thoughts, all trying to make sense of a mess that only Jack could see.  
  
A confusing, fucked-up, mind-boggling mess that revolved around the fact that, for almost half a _minute_ —  
  
Jack had believed that Elsa was going to kiss him.  
  
And he didn't know what the fuck to make of it.  
  
He'd heard California Girl talking about “priming” once, _before_ she became California Girl and went off to study psychology, and he clung to the idea desperately now, the thin shred of theoretical logic that might be able to explain all of this: after all, before _the_ mess, there'd been _another_ mess, in that he'd already been thinking of the Queen just a little earlier that evening, and how she was still _wicked_ attractive, even if he wasn't as attracted _to_ her as he used to be, so his stupid mind was already halfway down a dangerous track. And then Henrik kept coming up in conversation, and no matter how many casual remarks Elsa had made about his contributions to the upcoming summit, all Jack could hear in his head was Elsa's lilting voice, suggesting that _it's not just one's face that can be handsome_. (Jack's skin itched, just remembering it—) The idea that Elsa even _noticed_ something like that, let alone commented on it, let _alone_ that she probably, might have actually _thought_ about it, in general, at _all._ The _notion_ that Sideburns had a handsome— _had a handsome_ —body— _ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh—_ and that she'd seemed so unfazed, so unperturbed, and even though he knew—Jack _knew_ —that she'd just been saying those things to get a reaction from him—because she'd admitted it! _She'd admitted it._ (Because that was what they did to one another, with their games and their tricks and their Fun, in however many forms that took.)  
  
But Jack couldn't shake the idea—couldn't deny the possibility—the _probability—_ that, however much her words had been part of a _game_ , however much her words had been meant to rile him up or shock him, or whatever—he couldn't shake the startling realization that Elsa— _Elsa,_ Princess of Arendelle, heiress to the throne and future Queen—in all of her thoughtfulness and perceptiveness and sharp intelligence, in all of her gentle propriety and demure diplomacy, with her quiet spark of mischief and her reluctance to _play_ — _Elsa_ —may have actually given deeper, real consideration to the dimensions of—could he actually say it? ( _Fuck—_ )  
 _  
_Sideburns' body.  
  
Jack Frost nearly gagged into the passing wind.  
  
Just how clearly could he picture _her_ clearly picturing it—the particular contours and shapes and broadness of the guy, the tall frame and big arms, and _ugh_ , nope, that was as far as it went for Jack. _Nope._  
  
But then it was all he'd been able to think about while they'd lounged on her bed, while she'd been talking about the coming summer and he'd pretty much failed to listen—so focused was he on his own twisted pondering that he couldn't even get excited enough to look forward to the announcement of Anna's party—which _would_ happen, he was sure of it. She was talking animatedly about the different kingdoms that would be there— _at the summit, on the Isles_ —and how Henrik had personally invited her to join him, and that he'd even sent a formal invitation through their fathers, and all Jack could fucking think about what the way the guy had kissed Elsa's hand at the ball, all polite and chivalrous, and how he'd spun her about the dance floor more times than any other guest; Jack remembered how cold Elsa's hands had been as they'd stood at the top of the stairs to the grand ballroom and how the breath had ripped itself from Elsa's lungs— _how they'd forever rendered the rosmaling floor rug uneven with her pacing_ —and how tight she'd clung to him, her gloves stretching tightly over her freezing fingers, and how her hand had rested so easily over Henrik's shoulder as they'd danced.  
  
And then, somehow, when he'd woken up from his spell and realized that the conversation had veered toward the fishing families of the Southern Isles, Jack had been struck with the Memory of the fisherman's daughter from his sixteenth year—and the kiss that had ruined any hope of a restful night for months afterward. He didn't know how it slipped out—didn't _remember_ making the decision to speak, didn't even remember _saying_ it—but the _idea_ of it had been fresh in his mind, and then before he had a chance to get a hold of himself, it was out in the _open,_ and the next thing he knew, Elsa was asking him _what it was like_ , and she'd looked so _curious_ —always curious and inquisitive, _very proud and thoughtful and quiet and reserved and_ , seriously, did he mention curious?  
  
And they'd been so close to one another on the bed, like they _usually_ were, with their elbows and shoulders touching, the slight dip in the mattress from where their combined weight settled in, and it was no different from normal, really, except that she wanted to _know_ , and then she'd turned to him with an air of negotiation and certainty, and she was so _sure_ of herself suddenly—the gleam in her eye and the boldness of her words, the command of her voice and the teasing of her _tone_ —and by the time Jack had realized the truth of the situation—by the time he'd realized what Elsa had _actually_ , innocently been offering—  
  
He'd already imagined it.  
  
It was Elsa who'd moved first, _who'd stolen the choice from him_ , who leaned herself forward, a gentle jut of the chin, a slight tilt of her head. Her eyes had closed, but not until the last moment, _curious to the very end,_ and then her lips had pressed delicately to his, warm and cold, soft and firm and genuine. The air in his lungs had evaporated, chest gone tight with wordless feeling, brain a buzzing blank slate and lips tingling, and after an endless moment, when she'd started to pull away, Jack's hand had moved of its own accord, reaching for the golden strands of her hair. And then he'd woken up, the daydream shattered, and he found her staring at him expectantly, and the rest of his little world had pretty much come crashing the fuck down around him.  
  
High on the jagged peaks of Kilimanjaro, Jack clutched tightly at his chest. One of the drawstrings to his hoodie was twined around his fingers, and he was messing with the frost at his collar, he just knew it, but he could still _feel_ it, the hitch in his chest from the breath that wouldn't _hit_ , the almost-but-never-enough satisfaction of another gulp of air. He could have blamed it on the altitude, perhaps, but lying to himself had lost its appeal sometime around his second century.  
  
He had imagined Elsa kissing him.  
  
And _liked_ it.  
  
He'd _more_ than liked it, apparently, because he'd played out the same damn fantasy in head at least fifty times since leaving the castle, and even a few times _before_ he'd taken his leave, carelessly, during a few of Elsa's drawn-out considerations on something or other that somehow lapsed into one-sided silences. His brain was stupid with shock, he reasoned madly, trying not to think of the way her elbow shifted into his side, or how close her face was, when she looked to make sure he was still listening, especially since his ramrod body had determinedly chosen the underside of the canopy as its only focal point, and everything after that was very, very uncomfortable.  
  
Very.  
  
He'd never been so relieved to hear Elsa say that it was time to sleep—fucking _never—_ and he hoped to all the universe and back that she wouldn't take it personally, how quickly he complied—didn't even put up a _fight—_ as he swooped up his staff from the wall, bid her a harried, saluted goodnight, and literally flew out the window, cursing his stupidity every step of the way because how _obvious_ can you be, you clumsy _jackass_ , and _thank fucking frost you added a bow as a measly afterthought to your little shit-show excuse for a goodbye,_ as if he weren't acting like a lunatic enough, already.  
  
And now he was panicking again.  
  
Jack resisted the sudden urge to slap himself across the face and then— _you know what? Fuck it—_ did it, anyway, a sharp slap to the senses in the cold, bitter air.  
  
Elsa would _kill_ him if she knew about any of this.  
  
Like, as if it weren't already bad enough that he'd imagined this shit with her _mother—_ oh god. Oh, god, oh, god, _ohgod—_ but now— _this?  
  
_ Elsa was one of the most genuine people he had ever met in literally any of his entire fucking existence—Guardians didn't count because they were _Guardians—_ and never did wrong by anybody, looking out for everyone all the time and taking the brunt of all the world's shit without a stroke of meanness in her, with her head held high and her head on straight, and ready to take the fucking world by the horns, if somebody would ever fucking let her out of her room.  
  
She stuck to her gut, and held tight to her values, and one thing that Elsa valued most— _just under freedom, right next to love_ —was _respect_ , and space, and _trust,_ and in ten seconds—Jack Frost had ruined all of that.  
  
In an ill-timed flash of Memory, Jack recalled the night at her windowsill when she was thirteen-years-old— _thir—teen_ —when she promised to Believe in him forever, and he'd reached out across the divide to brush his fingers through her bangs and oh _god_ , he couldn't do this, couldn't fucking do this, didn't fucking deserve to come down from this fucking mountain because he was a sick fuck, a fucking poor excuse for a Guardian who couldn't keep his shit straight or his boundaries right, couldn't do fucking _any of it_ , because he could remember a time when Elsa preferred the library balcony only because she _couldn't see over the top of any of the others_ and the look on her face when she was being fitted for her first pair of summer gloves, because _Jack remembered_ the way she used to fit her entire body into her favorite chair, curled up into a tiny little ball, and the dream catcher they made together, _however many years ago_ , and Jack _—remembered—_ the flower crown she threaded together for him on the first day of spring, the drawing she received from Anna for her eighth birthday, the jagged ice on the walls of her room when he'd ripped her from the clutches of the _N_ _ightmare_ , _ice turned black and blue in the darkness of the waning moon_ as her little frame trembled with _Fear—  
  
_ Jack Frost retched into the slope of the mountain, and stained the crisp white of snow.  
  
The full weight of the fucked-up situation he was in settled plainly onto the bony jut of his shoulders, heavy and thick and suffocating. He was a _Guardian_. He was supposed to be a _Guardian—_ he was supposed to _protect_ her, goddammit, not fucking— _not_ —  
  
Jack swiped a wrist over the bitter taste in his mouth and realized belatedly that his hands were shaking. He dug a thumb into the palm of one hand, willing it to settle, but the sensation was too close, too familiar to the recent feeling of Elsa's hands on his. He ripped his hands away, twitching and numb, and laced them tightly over the back of his neck, face falling back to stare at the sky, a decision clenching in his chest.  
  
Elsa couldn't know.  
  
Forget killing him. If Elsa ever found out about the things he'd thought of her—the _images_ in his head, the feeling in his _gut_ —she'd never trust him again.  
  
And that was so much worse.

. * * * .

 


	97. - two days -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/27/14_. Another huge thanks to betas **ALISON** and **SOCKS**! 
> 
> And another HUGE, HUGE, HUGE thanks to [**chickensaredoodling**](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com) for [another gorgeous doodle](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/86615442082/elsas-face-was-priceless-how-did-you-you). (Seriously, just FOLLOW THEM ALREADY, agh, such gorgeous art, AGHH.) Plus! [**cassaela**](http://cassaela.tumblr.com) drew this [adorable fanart](http://cassaela.tumblr.com/post/86921106746/on-deviantart-inspired-by-the-fanfic-at-the-centre). Please check both of these artists out! Cool stuff all around. <3 <3
> 
> Aaaaand onto the chapter update itself! I really took my time on this one, so please let me know your thoughts. <3

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- two days -_  
  
. * * * .

The following two days were long ones.  
  
Jack spent them in Norway, watching the frost try its hardest to thaw; he and the sunshine played catch for a while, freezing and melting the ice on the saplings in the forest, while Jack divided his time between not thinking about much of anything at all, and thinking about one thing in particular.  
  
Two whole days, and for what?  
  
He was making a giant production out of nothing—no better than Bunnymund might, or North. Hiding away in a rural village, avoiding the others, keeping to himself amongst the trees.  
  
This had _nutjob_ written all over it.  
  
Jack had known from the very beginning that this whole mess had only come about because he'd been thinking of the Queen. It'd somehow melted its way over into the rest of his brain, and then all that talk of Henrik had been making his head spin, and—when it'd happened, the _thing_ , the thing that he sometimes thought about—they were literally mid-conversation about kissing, of all things, so _of course_ he was naturally going to imagine Elsa kissing him, by accident.  
  
Naturally.  
  
The point was that that's all it was—an accident. A blip, a hiccup, a _something-never-to-be-spoken-of-again_. He wouldn't tell anyone about it, ever, and he certainly wouldn't be caught thinking about it.  
  
Because he wasn't going to think about it anymore.

. * * * .

“This is nice,” Jack declared.  
  
This was torture.  
  
Elsa had been sending strange and subtle glances his way all evening, and he supposed he couldn't blame her for it. (“ _You left rather quickly the other night_ ,” she observed cautiously, to which he smoothly replied, “ _Well, yeah. You know. Norway.”_ ) Since then, he'd been staring intently at a book he'd plucked off the shelf, occasionally shuffling the pages, and it was only when Elsa asked him if he was interested in the process of horse breeding that Jack realized that he had picked a rather unfortunate book, indeed.  
  
She seemed determined not to say anything, however, which was good—or at least to wait until _he_ said something first, which wasn't happening—so they sat in awkward silence together in her room, with she, at her desk, and he, at the farthest point in the room at the window sill, and seriously, _what_ was so damn difficult about this?  
  
For him, anyway.

( _Did_ she _feel awkward? Could she_ tell _that he felt awkward?_  
 _Of course she could_ —it's Elsa.  
  
 _But did she know_ why _he felt awkward? Could she read it—right there on his face?_  
 _Of course she couldn't._  
  
 _But she could see the weirdness, couldn't she? The twitchy limbs and the awkward distance._  
 _The way he wouldn't quite look at her, or initiate a conversation—even a pointless one—and the not knowing_  
what to do _or_ what to say _or to_ how to act—  
a _fter experiencing that kind of—?_ )

“Would you like to do something else?”  
  
Jack only barely caught himself from jumping at the sudden sound of her voice. _Seriously._ _Keep it together, man_.  
  
“What?”  
  
Elsa had gracefully spun round in her chair, ankles crossed, and was looking at him carefully over the high edge of the backrest, fingers clutching the corner. Her head was tilted to the side. “I was wondering if you might like to do something else, instead,” she repeated, and it was so hard to tell what she was thinking, behind that thoughtful stare.  
  
It wasn't usually this hard.  
  
“Uh,” Jack muttered, having almost forgotten what it was that she'd asked him—for a second time. “Like what?”  
  
Elsa seemed perplexed by the question. “I suppose... we could play Slapjack, or waltz. Or even that arm-wrestling competition you mentioned last time.”  
  
Jack blinked. “You're suggesting an arm-wrestling match?”  
  
“No,” Elsa replied quickly. “Well. Not necessarily. I only ask because you seem... distracted.”  
  
 _Oh, boy_.  
  
Clearing his throat, Jack shifted himself up from his scrunched-up position on the seat, until he was cross-legged and hunched over in Elsa's general direction. He tried to stop the sigh, but his body seemed to find it necessary, especially if he was going to try to pull off a cheeky, blasé quip like, “Is that your polite way of saying I'm boring?”  
  
“It's my way of saying you look... bored.”  
  
Jack Frost blinked—again.  
  
And again.  
  
“ _Bored_?”  
  
“Well, aren't you?”  
  
Crazy? Most definitely. Despicable? Arguably. Weak-minded and ill-disciplined and prone to dangerous, wandering thoughts? ( _Regrettably_.) But _bored_?  
  
This was a new low, even for him.  
  
“Wow,” Jack half-sighed, half-laughed. He scratched at the hair over his temple, trying not let himself be burdened down by crippling, overwhelming guilt. Lightly, he muttered, “Some Guardian of Fun, _I_ am.”  
  
“I believe that is the point,” Elsa countered, with that calm, _I'm-reasonable-so-listen-to-me_ sort of tone. “ _You_ are its Guardian; I am not.”  
  
Jack's head snapped up quickly, enough to put a strain in his neck. “Wait. Elsa... are you tryin' to say that I'll get... _bored_ of you?”  
  
“Apparently, you already are,” she pointed out, then added the casual remark of, “Though, what with the entire works of Leo Tolstoy at my disposal, it's a wonder how you ever made it this long.”  
  
Elsa stared back at him placidly, but still, his eyes narrowed as he peered toward her, “I can't tell if you're joking or not.”  
  
“Well. Some Guardian of Fun _you_ are, indeed.”  
  
She was smiling at him.  
  
Not with her face, per se, but her eyes. Jack would have said that she was smiling at him with her very spirit, but that would have sounded stupid, so he didn't bother to think it through. And she was waiting for him to come up with some sort of response, too—something clever, and quick, and shit, he had something on the tip of his tongue, he _knew it_ , it was _right there_ somewhere, the _perfect_ —  
  
“Jack. I've decided what I'd like to do next.”

. * * * .  
  
And really, you'd think that after all these years,  
he'd have seen the damn snowball coming.

. * * * .

Jack Frost was a fool.  
  
And not only because he darted when he should have _dodged_ , or because his laughter gave away his position more times than he could count, or because he underestimated the number of snowballs that Elsa could conjure in five seconds flat.  
  
He was a fool, especially, because it took him three hours of self-pity and pointless suffering to realize that Elsa was upset with him.

(It was just as he was beginning to feel light again—the way he was _supposed_ to feel, around Elsa—whipping snow clods back and forth at one another, laughing over the sounds of the crackling fire and under the quiet hum of the castle, that Jack convinced himself that things could go back to normal.  
  
Jack Frost, _King of Fools_.)

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“I missed you,” Elsa told him that evening, three hours after his arrival, and half an hour after the snow inside the room had begun to melt. She was at the window, in her normal spot, “You left so quickly... it made me wonder if something was wrong.”  
  
Jack swallowed down a ball of guilt, then quickly shook his head, sharp and forceful. “It's just Guardian stuff,” he pushed out through a sigh, quickly derailing her train of thought before it had a chance to carry any further on its way. The wall felt comforting at his back and things were _better_ now and, “Tooth is really stressed out about some Memory issues that have come up, and it's—you know. It's sort of taking its toll on all of us.”  
  
Elsa considered this for a moment, then, “Are _you_ all right?”  
  
“Who—me? Oh, yeah,” Jack laughed, and was surprised to find that it wasn't forced. “Content as a fluffy bunny.”  
  
“Hm,” she answered, obviously unconvinced. She played along though, and decided to casually mention, “Bunny stopped by while you were away. North had recommended Dostoevsky the last time he was here, but he'd already loaned Bunny his copy. He was in quite a hurry, but he said hello.”  
  
Jack rolled his eyes. “Of course he's in a hurry,” he muttered. “It's mid-March, and Easter is only forty-some-odd days away. The nut.”  
  
He could feel Elsa's eyes on his face, searching and watching in the way that she always did, and tried not to compare the feeling to needles pricking over his skin, thousands upon thousands dragging across his cheek. It felt very strange, and very subtle, and very warm. Jack cleared his throat, and said, “Hey. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw what Bunny _really_ looks like?”  
  
“No, you did not, but Bunny knows you too well; he's already enlightened me, just so you wouldn't be the one to do so.”  
  
“Dammit,” Jack cursed. “Damn kangaroo never lets me have any Fun.”  
  
Elsa smirked, “You better Hope he won't ever hear you say that.”  
  
And _god—  
  
_ He'd missed her so badly.  
  
He'd realized it, of course, in the same way he always did when he was away, but he hadn't really _realized_ it, until he was back, until he was _here_ , laughing with her in her room. He'd missed the way she glared at him when she was desperately trying to hold onto her irritation, or the way she would reach for his shoulder when she wanted to show him something interesting in her books. He missed the look in her eyes when she was about to pelt him with snow, and the way she laughed with her whole body now, the trembling shoulders and wide-open smile, so much grander than the little grins he used to treasure for weeks at a time. After all he'd been through, was it actually possible to take those small, precious things for granted?  
  
He hadn't thought so.  
  
“I missed you,” he blurted suddenly.  
  
It was a little awkward, and to Elsa it probably seemed more than a little random, but he couldn't find the embarrassment to regret it. It was true, anyway. He missed her smile and her needling and her wicked sharp aim. He missed lounging with her on the rug or pestering her at her desk. (So _what_ if he'd got a little carried away with his imagination? Big deal. It happened to a lot of people. He was entitled to a few fuck-ups, every now and then.  
  
Right?)  
  
But Elsa didn't respond as he thought she would.  
  
Instead, she rearranged the heavy fabric of her skirts, and smoothed out the wrinkles over her ankles with deliberate care. He took a moment to take in the sight of her, possibly for the very first time since he'd arrived—since he'd _left_ , two days before—and was almost startled to find her almost exactly as she was when he'd fled from her room, headed straight for the storms of Kilimanjaro; he saw the same coil of pleated hair spun elegantly at the top of her collar, the same strands in the same places, the black headband long gone. Same height, same breadth and shape of her, and it struck Jack suddenly that she might _not_ have been—that in the two days since he'd last seen her, she could have changed entirely, or not at all, and that he wouldn't have known it, because he was too busy fucking around in Norway, trying to ignore the fact that Elsa wasn't exactly a little girl anymore— _she wasn't_ —and trying to pretend that she wasn't growing up without him, trying to pretend that he hadn't imagined her any other way. Squandering away two of what _few fucking days_ he had with her because he hadn't controlled himself, and he was scared, and impulsive and selfish and _goddammit_ , he _knew_ that he was being ridiculous. Wasting all that time because, for as long and as hard as immortal Jack Frost had longed for the essence of change, three centuries and endless lifetimes—he did not make it easily.  
  
Because Elsa didn't deserve the fucked-up mess that he truly was.  
  
And hiding was the only way Jack knew how to keep it from her.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa finally began, soft and tenuous. His throat tightened, aware of her gentle tone—and the subtle edge beneath it. Her fingers folded the pleats of fabric at her lap, but her eyes were on his, no hiding, when she told him, “I think I ought to explain something.  
  
“It's been known to me for quite some time that you have many responsibilities—many of which keep you away for days, possibly even weeks, at a time... But it's not like you to leave suddenly, without any explanation.”  
  
“I know. I know, and I'm sorry—”  
  
“I would have understood _better_ , you see, if I'd—if I'd known that... Jack, I never _ask_ for the intricate details of what troubles you because I know you have your reasons just as much as any other... but to leave so _abruptly_ ,” Elsa's voice rose, in pitch and in volume, “without _warning_ , and—and with no mention of how long you'd be gone, I—”  
  
“Hey,” Jack interrupted, leaning closer. There was a strange patter in his chest, quick and hurried and rattling against his ribcage; the unmistakable, ill-timed strike of restless excitement. His eyes longed to be serious, but a smile kept curling onto his face, completely beyond his control. ( _Elsa_ had been _worried_ about him.  
  
Which was a really stupid thing to get excited about, considering that worrying was something they were trying to avoid—at all costs. And that this wasn't like, the _first_ time she'd worried for him, even, but—)  
  
“Hey,” he repeated, and the smile was totally winning now.  
  
Elsa didn't look nearly as amused. She caught sight of the goofy grin on his face and _her_ expression only darkened, deep and disappointed, which made Jack laugh aloud, absurdly, and just as Elsa meant to turn away, Jack reached forward and caught hold of both of her bare hands on instinct. She looked up, expectantly, and Jack couldn't have described this weird-ass, giddy feeling inside of him even if he tried, not even for three blizzards and a pound of chocolate.  
  
“Which one of us is supposed to be the Guardian here?” Jack whispered, grinning at the faint freckles over her nose. “This worrying thing is sort of _my_ job.”  
  
“Well, that's two counts of your responsibilities in which you've failed today,” Elsa nodded thoughtfully, looking down at their hands. “Entertaining me, and worrying sufficiently.”  
  
“I'm sorry— _entertaining_ you?”  
  
“I'm afraid I might have to file a complaint,” Elsa continued, twisting his hands so that the small veins in his wrists gleamed blue in the moonlight. “Do you think Bunnymund is available to take on another assignment?”  
  
Jack's mouth opened in silent alarm. Something in his face was twitching, but he couldn't really feel it, because half his body had just gone numb.  
  
“ _Elsa_ ,” said Jack, tightly. “That is _so_ not funny.”  
  
“I imagine not. I wasn't joking.”  
  
Panic flared in his chest. “ _Elsa!_ ” he hissed, leaning forward—  
  
A firm hand planted itself into his sternum and pushed him onto his back; the air might have left him, had he been breathing in the first place. Alarmed, Jack looked up toward the other end of the long window seat, only to find that Elsa had shifted herself closer, and was leaning over him, looking down at him from her regal posture, and it was rather fitting, wasn't it? The devious look in her eye and the royal command in her spine, and the slight tremor to her jaw.  
  
Her hand was still pressing into his chest.  
  
“Please don't ever leave me like that again,” Elsa said quietly, peering down at him. Her voice was even, but her fingers were so very, very cold. “Understood?”  
  
From this angle, he could see the pale expanse of skin at her forehead, see the skin that was usually hidden by her bangs, and Jack was stupid. Jack was stupid _,_ stupid, _stupid_ , because nothing was worth leaving Elsa by herself.  
  
He'd remember that.  
  
“I'm sorry,” Jack whispered, and didn't try to reach for her hands again, even though he wanted to. “I won't.”

  
( _I won't leave you again_ , he said. _I won't forget what you mean to me._  
 _And I won't get confused by it again, either._ )

  
“Good,” Elsa replied, the weight of her hand still firm on his chest. “Because if you do, I may not be so forgiving next time.”  
  
 _“_ What _._ The arsenal of snowballs I just endured half an hour ago— _t_ _hat's_ your idea of forgiveness?”  
  
And then for the second time that evening, Jack Frost ate snow.

. * * * .  
  
( _The vengeance wasn't his,_  
 _but he had to admit—_  
  
 _it still tasted pretty sweet_.)

. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Jack had known that he was overreacting before he'd even swept in through the window that night.  
  
Knew it before she'd even laid eyes on him, before she'd whipped her head round to catch him sailing into the room, pages shuffling and flames flickering in the wind. He knew that he'd reacted foolishly, and probably sort of childishly, even before he caught Elsa's sigh of relief at the sight of him, the way her shoulders sagged with the force of it, or the way she bit her lip as he hung carelessly from the bedpost, the way he _normally_ did, because that was what he was aiming for— _normal._ Like she was holding back her smile—just in case. Biting her lip, and holding it back.  
  
Like she was still trying to let herself believe that he was really there.  
  
Jack Frost had been an idiot. A complete, and utter idiot, and he'd known it all along.... even before he pulled a perfunctory bow, all stiff awkwardness and half-assed flourish, and a smile that probably only showed half of how sorry he was.  
  
He knew it even before he realized that she'd been waiting for him, at the window.  
  
He'd known it the whole damn time.

. * * * .


	98. - her heart -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/28/14_. No betas or anything, this literally just popped itself right the fuck out. :P I sat down to do homework and--BAM. Thirty-four minutes later, chapter update.
> 
> AND I REALLY LIKE IT. :)
> 
> Also, a belated, "Happy 600 kudos, everyone!" :D :D Thank you!!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _(she ain't_  
 _gonna hand)_  
 _\- her heart -_  
 _(over to_  
 _just_  
 _anyone)_  
  
. * * * .

It was very clear to Jack, what he had to do next.  
  
He'd messed up.  
  
He'd betrayed Elsa's trust— _in more ways than one_ —and she was giving him another chance to prove that he was worthy of it.  
  
Elsa's trust was more important to him than anything. Jamie had been the first to see him, yeah, but Jack was starting to think that— _maybe_ —Elsa was the first to believe in him, not _just_ as a Guardian.  
  
But as a person.

( _Being a Guardian—being_ Elsa's _Guardian—was_  
 _more important to him, than anything_.)

So, yeah, Elsa was beautiful. She was a beautiful person, from a beautiful family, and had beautiful magic—Jack got it. And yeah, Jack was attracted to beauty just like any other human would be— _in nature, and in people_ —but that had never exactly been a _question._ It was something he'd always appreciated.

( _Especially in a world of quiet, where everything changed around him;_  
 _in a world where he waited—affected, but never changing—where beauty lasted only precious seconds,_  
 _and he had the privilege, the curse, to watch the changes take place before his eyes._  
  
 _Year, after year, after_  
 _year._ )

Elsa had grown up.  
  
And somewhere along the line, Jack Frost had stopped seeing her only as a little girl, his little assignment to protect. She was a friend, and a beautiful person, and sooner or later— _and sooner, rather than later_ —he was going to have to face the facts: that every day, every second, every hour, Elsa was changing. Her height, her voice, and her thoughts, her smile and her freckles and her age, and there was nothing he could do, nothing but appreciate each moment, nothing but make the best of them that he could. He was going to have to face the reality that, one day, he would be no more than an old friend, a fond Memory who occasionally came to visit her and her happy family, her hair grown silver, creases of laughter around her eyes.  
  
That one day, Elsa would die.  
  
And Jack would be left to somehow make sense of _forever,_ without her.

  
( _It was becoming real now, that not-so-distant realization._  
  
 _How quickly had eleven years gone by?_  
 _How long would it really take for another eleven to pass—or twenty, or fifty?_  
  
 _He was lucky that he'd been granted this much_  
 _at all_.)

None of the other Guardians could offer him any wisdom—none of _their_ assignments had ever Believed past the age of thirteen. No other assignment had become such an integral part of their lives, their holidays and their routines, their fancy book clubs and the targets of their competitive attention. Elsa was special in the way that no other special assignment ever had been, and because of it—no one could tell Jack what to do.  
  
Though it wasn't for a lack of trying.

. * * * .

“You're being an idiot.”  
  
“I'm gonna go ahead and blame your crotchetiness on the fact that Easter is only a week away.”  
  
“Blame whatever the hell you _bloody_ like—you're being an idiot.”  
  
Jack jumped back just in time to miss the swing of a three-pronged cultivator, which had been aimed _suspiciously_ close to the exact spot where his left foot had been only moments before. It looked less like a gardening tool and more like a device of torture, anyway. Especially with the way Bunny was hacking at the ground.  
  
“I'm not _actually_ gonna do it,” Jack groaned, ignoring the uneasy swirl of his gut.  
  
“Damn _right_ you're not. You even as so much as _sneeze_ in the direction of the Southern Isles within a month of the Summit, and I swear to all that is _green_ , Frost—”  
  
“All right! All _right._ Damn, Bunny, it was just a joke!”  
  
“Me cracking a comment about you carrying around a wooden _staff_ all day is a joke; your casual mention of freezing over the Summit is _not_.”  
  
“ _Yeah_ —thanks for clearing that up,” Jack muttered darkly.  
  
“This is _Rapunzel's_ first Summit, too, if you recall,” Bunny sniped onward, hacking at the ground with reckless abandon. Or maybe it was strategic expertise. Jack wouldn't have known the difference. “This is not the time to get possessive, you egg-brain.”  
  
Jack arched a brow, doubtfully. _“Is_ there a time to get possessive?” he challenged.  
  
“Yes.” _Hack._ “When no-good, dirty, rotten thieves try to woo them out to harbor.” _Hack._  
  
Jack watched, considering this. “Do Princes count?”  
  
 _Hack. Thud._ Bunnymund dropped the gardening tool to the ground and brushed the dirt off of his hands, leaning back on his ginormous fucking heels.  
  
“What kind of Prince?”  
  
Jack smirked, in spite of himself. _This_ was why he came to Bunny.  
  
“An older one,” Jack answered, arms crossed. “He's twelfth in line for his own throne, and writes her letters every month, and has the sideburns of an ape.”  
  
Bunnymund let out a low whistle, then chuckled, loud and hard. Jack's amusement diminished instantly, when Bunny caught hold of his laughing stomach and said, “Boy. You've sure got rotten luck. I warned ya, didn't I?”  
  
Jack vaguely remembered something to that effect, the night of Rapunzel's Turning Point.  
  
“You're kind of an asshole,” Jack reminded him.  
  
“Good. Somebody's gotta keep you in line.”  
  
This wasn't exactly the answer he was looking for.  
  
“How do we know this guy isn't a complete douchebag?” Jack demanded, watching in real, true annoyance as Bunnymund resumed his work without another thought. “I mean—what if he's a total jerk? Or a psychopath? Or a sleaze?”  
  
“Sandy had one of the Isles' older brothers for an assignment a decade or two back,” Bunny replied, striking at the dry clods of earth and raking the prongs through the soil, churning the old dirt with the new. “Bright kid, even brighter leader.”  
  
“Yeah, but that's not _him_.”  
  
“Frost, have you given the guy a chance?”  
  
“Have you given _Flynn Ryder_ a chance?”  
  
 _Hack_. “ _Eugene_ has proven himself a respectable man,” Bunny muttered. “For the most part.”  
  
“So, what—you're saying I should just— _hope_ that this guy isn't a complete asshole? That Elsa's not gonna get her heart broken over some jerk?”  
  
“You might not want to hear this, Frost, but—that's all you _can_ do,” Bunny replied evenly, wiping away a trail of sweat at his brow. Jack scowled, and Bunny looked up, saw it, and smirked. Like he'd been expecting it. “'Sides,” he added, with a small chuckle. “The way I see it, Elsa's much more likely to do the _breaking,_ in my opinion. She ain't gonna hand her heart over to just anyone.”  
  
Jack inhaled deeply, staring at the torn up earth. “You haven't exactly seen her on mail day,” he muttered.  
  
“Nah,” Bunny agreed absently, trailing his fingertips through the loose soil, carefully inspecting it for something Jack couldn't see. “But if I know Elsa—and I like to think I _do—then_ something tells me that I don't really need to. I bet she's already got it all figured out.”  
  
Jack didn't know if that was supposed to make him feel better, or worse.

. * * * .

“You gonna just stand there and look pretty, or you actually do some work here?”  
  
“The hell? I thought I wasn't supposed to touch anything?”  
  
“I've got a nursery of navel oranges in the west corridor that need insulation.  
Hop to it, frost boy.”  
  
. * * * .

 


	99. - to lead -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/28/14_. Yooo, so I literally have not stopped. This will be the last one of the night, though, because I need sleep. I also really, really like this one.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- to lead -_  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .

Anna, Jack discovered, liked the rain.  
  
It was something else that she and Elsa had in common.  
  
( _Just one of the many hundred things one didn't know about the other,_  
 _a list of never-ending likes and shared interests, never shared_.)  
  
He could have written a book, recorded them all down, and he actually considered it,  
once or twice.  
  
But it wouldn't have really been the same.

. * * * .

“Stupid history,” Anna muttered, then let her head fall flat to the table.  
  
It was a comfortably overcast day outside, right in the middle of April, and Jack could practically feel Bunny soaking it all in, however many millions of miles away. The smell of spring was fresh in the air, the warmth and the moisture and the new life, teeming with growing, peaceful energy, and a languid sort of calm.  
  
Anna tapped her quill against the page, restlessly.  
  
He was perched atop the chair adjacent to hers, watching curiously from under the safety of his certain invisibility. She'd been trying to compose this essay for almost an hour now, and still, the parchment was nearly empty; there were so few words written, he couldn't even tell what the topic was.  
  
Another few minutes trailed on by, caught in the gentle sounds of the rain shower. Jack watched the way Anna curled her hair behind her ears, and slipped her hands through one another, or the way she bit her lip in thought. They were the same ticks she'd had since she was four, the same movements and expressions she'd worn all through her life. Slowly, Jack began to wonder if Elsa might recognize them the way _he_ did; how much of the little sister she'd known was still inside this Anna, this young woman sitting at this table, struggling to put her thoughts into words?  
  
And _Anna—_ she was so young when Elsa had been locked away, and Elsa had changed _so much_ , since then. In some ways—in few, faint ways—Elsa _was_ still just as much that curious, perceptive little girl as ever, but how well would Anna recognize her sister now?  
  
How much had she truly known her sister, at all?  
  
“Anna?” came a voice at the door.  
  
Jack's head turned at the same moment that Anna's did, and they found one of her teachers letting themselves in. Jack had never liked this woman very much, and so had never bothered to learn her name.  
  
“How are we faring, your highness?”  
  
Anna's teacher helped herself into the seat across from Jack, glancing down at the mostly empty page with pursed lips. That was the problem with this lady; she _wanted_ to help, but usually just made a bigger mess of things. It sort of reminded Jack of himself.  
  
“Poorly,” Anna answered eventually, voice honest with disappointment and frustration. “I don't feel I have... the necessary experience to answer this.”  
  
“Why ever not, dear?”  
  
Anna's lower lip caught between her teeth. Her eyes were hard on the page, lost in thought.  
  
“I don't know what it means to be a leader,” she answered quietly, and Jack's eyes narrowed, curiously. “I've never had to lead.”  
  
“Well, leading is many things, dear—it is a _duty_ , and a privilege. It is a _responsibility._ You could speak of that,” she suggested.  
  
“I suppose,” Anna agreed.  
  
The teacher-lady paused, then leaned in closer, inspecting Anna's thoughtful frown just as carefully as Jack was. “What of the different kinds of leadership? Or the history of how Arendelle's leadership came to be?” Upon seeing the blank look across Anna's face, and mistaking it for _confused_ instead of _overwhelmed_ , she tried, “Or perhaps you'd like to try a different approach? Your sister wrote a beautifully-composed exploration on the means through which Arendelle came to accept, and even _encourage,_ matriarchal power. You know, until her majesty's investigation, I actually hadn't been aware that it was first Queen Elena of Old Arendal who decreed—”  
  
“I think I understand now,” Anna said quickly, then cleared her throat. “Thank you,” Anna added politely, nodding at her tutor with a smile.  
  
Well. As politely as possible, anyway.  
  
Both Jack and her tutor looked to her; both concerned, one less surprised than the other. “Oh,” said the woman, nodding slowly. “Would you like to discuss—?”  
  
“Thank you, really, but I wish to write my ideas onto the paper, lest I forget.”  
  
“Oh. Of course. Right away, dear. Your Majesty.”  
  
Anna dipped her head gracefully as the tutor gave her a few final reminders— _now remember, please remember to use proper punctuation when a sentence has become too—_ and then woman was gone, and Anna was left alone again in the library with naught but the rain and an empty page.  
  
And Jack.

. * * * .  
  
The door closed shut.   
Anna gently laid her temple to the wood, and was still.  
  
Jack stayed with her for the rest of the afternoon, and the rain   
did not stop.  
  
. * * * .


	100. - and desirability -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/28/14_. LA, LA LA, LA LA--
> 
> I CAN'T HEAR YOU LAST CHAPTER UPDATE FOR TONIGHT I SWEAR I SWEAR
> 
> HAPPY ONE HUNDRED!! ;) ;) ;) ;)

 

  
. * * * .  
  
 _(the wealth)_  
 _\- and desirability -_  
 _(of Arendelle)_  
  
. * * * .

 

“ _Jack_! Oh, good, you're _back_! Look here, at the dates—the summit is officially less than two months away! Come, listen—I've been thinking of what I will say to my father to convince him to allow me to attend.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Jack grinned, stepping down form the sill and shaking raindrops from his hair. “What's that?”

“Well. Think about it,” Elsa held tight to his wrist, yanking him toward the bed. He was dripping everywhere, but Elsa didn't seem to notice. “Arendelle has had a profitable few last years, despite its notable absence from _any_ grand affairs—for a _decade_ , mind you—and _now_ is the time to start placing bargaining chips on the table.”  
  
“Uh, yeah, I guess that makes sense. Um. Elsa. Are you sure you don't want me to go, like, closer to the _fire_? Uh. Where's it dry?”  
  
“It's only water, Jack, the bedding will survive. Anyway, what I'm _saying_ is that Arendelle has the advantage of alliance and credibility, _and_ the added allure of mystery... No, don't be silly, there's no need for you to sit all the way down at the edge, for goodness' sake—just sit _here._ All right, well, we want to remind our allies just how valuable we are, and assure our acquaintances that our goods are highly coveted. We have quite the collection of assets, after all.”  
  
“So...” Jack tried to follow along, while somehow simultaneously ignoring the fact that he was dripping northern rainwater all over her _eiderdown_. Jack moved closer to the edge, just the tiniest bit. “You're gonna convince the King that you'll be the one to explain all that.”  
  
“No—well. Yes, in a way,” she amended thoughtfully. “But the point is rather that _I_ am included on that list.”  
  
 _Wait_.  
  
“Wait. Come again?”  
  
“Well, just think of it—a kingdom with a daughter eligible for marriage?” Elsa was nearly brimming with excitement; it was all over her face, pure and simple.  _"Jack_ ,” she repeated, when his only response was a blank stare. “ _I_ am an asset!”  
  
“ _Elsa_ —you're not—you're not a _bargaining_ chip!”  
  
“Oh, but I am,” Elsa smirked, looking far too pleased with herself. “And my father knows it, too.”  
  
“ _Elsa._ He would never—he would _never—_ ”  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” Elsa stopped him short, poking him playfully hard in the shoulder. Cold, wet fabric bit into his skin. “It is merely an argument I will present to ensure that I may attend. The whole affair is no more than a large web of half-truths being spun about—diplomacy and politics and _oh_ , it's all just a game, but it's a game that can be played _well_ , and be used for _good._ The way Arendelle has for generations. _Jack_ —in order for my turn to play, I must first get onto the _board._ ”  
  
“How?” Jack demanded dryly, scratching at his wet hair uncomfortably. “By reminding everyone that your marriage material?”  
  
Elsa peered up at him in exasperation. He wasn't quite sure how she'd expected him to react. And he wasn't quite sure what she was going to do— _hit him upside the head, or get offended, or smirk at him_ —even when she rose her chin loftily and said, “My entry-ticket is what will get me _in_ ; it is not what will keep me there.”  
  
“Yeah?” he bit out, a fair bit exasperated, himself. “What will, then?”  
  
“You, of all people, should know that once a game has begun, it is very difficult to end,” Elsa smoothly replied, grinning. Jack bit his cheek and nodded, refraining from rolling his eyes, but the point was probably moot—she could tell that he wanted to, anyway.  
  
“Attending this summit will open so many doors for me,” she added more quietly. “Quite honestly, it's an entire world of opportunity that's never been accessible to me before.”  
  
Jack didn't answer right away. He knew how much this meant to her. And he knew just what this could do for her—how much better her life could become, because of it. He was actually rather grateful for it.  
  
Didn't mean he had to like it, though.  
  
Jack rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly and shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He hitched a leg up and crossed it underneath him on the blankets, twisting so that he could face her without having to strain something. With a sigh, Jack bit the bullet and nodded, like he actually had to pump himself up to ask a simple question.  
  
Though. Maybe not so simple.  
  
“So what will you say to your dad, then?”  
  
“ _Hopefully_ , not a great deal. He should already be aware of the implications of what my presence could mean for the prosperity of the kingdom, but I'd like to contribute my fair share to his decision, of course. And I have a few proposals to make of my own,” Elsa smiled, almost impishly. She may or may not have taken note of Jack's shifted position, but either way, her direction changed to match his; Elsa hoisted her legs up onto the bed and curled them beneath her, under the heavy layers of her dress. Jack leaned away, slightly. “I mean—after a journey such as this, there is no possible _way_ he could deny me Anna.”  
  
Jack actually allowed himself a small smile back. _You've got a point there_ , he wanted to say.  
  
But Jack also knew the King, and with the King he knew that, sometimes, human sense wasn't always followed.  
  
Yet Anna's fifteenth birthday was just around the corner. The castle had already begun to share hushed whispers of the ball-to-be, and there was talk that the official announcement was _sure_ to be made within a fortnight.  
  
But then again, that could have just been Olga's wishful thinking.  
  
“What if he doesn't budge?”  
  
“He has to,” Elsa replied immediately, with certainty. No hesitation. No question. “Arendelle is finally getting back on the board, now more than ever. It's only right that the other kingdoms get a fair look at the players in our set.”  
  
Jack Frost frowned. His eyes dropped to the familiar black and white squares on the table across the room, at the pieces standing tall; his eyes lingered on the White Queen.  
  
Her words might not have bothered him, necessarily—he may not have even _noticed_ them, in all honesty—had it not been for her earlier point about bargaining chips.  
  
Maybe.  
  
“A fair look, huh?” Jack muttered, raising his eyes to meet Elsa's.  
  
After a stunned moment, Elsa actually smiled back at him, amused and surprised. “Jack Frost... are you implying what I think you're implying?”  
  
Jack didn't know what the hell he was implying. He wished he'd never opened his damn mouth.  
  
She passed right over it, without hesitation.  
  
“He has yet to declare his formal decision, but in truth—he has no choice; if he has _any_ hope for the prosperity of our kingdom, whether be it for his generation or the next, then I _must_ attend the Summit at the Southern Isles. _This_ year. The timing is perfect, and not even my father can deny the obvious draw of attention my coming would bring to the wealth and desirability of Arendelle.”  
  
Jack's jaw twitched. _Interesting choice of words._ It had not escaped him, of course, that Elsa always chose her words carefully.  
  
Very, very carefully.  
  
Jack cleared his throat.  
  
“So, then what?” he asked, simply for something to keep the conversation going.  
  
He already knew what to expect.  
  
“Then... I don't even know where to start. The _talk_ and the philosophy—so many great minds all in one place. And—some _not_ so great, but I am not worried. Arendelle has had its fair share of run-ins with greed, and I am not naïve to the ways of corruption... but there is so much more, and most all of our realm is credited for its commitment to honor, and service. Rapunzel will be there, you know, and Henrik.”  
  
“And Henrik,” Jack echoed dully. This time, the eye roll was not so easy to withhold.  
  
“He's invited me personally. I know I said that before, but he mentioned it again in his last letter, and told me about the Isles,” she sighed. “They sound wonderful.”  
  
“You should take North with you,” Jack muttered, leaning back even farther, and dropping himself onto the weight of his hands. His palms dug deep holes into the mattress, fingers clenching in the comforter. “Wonderful _and_ sunny. I'm sure he'd get a kick out of it.”  
  
He stared at the chessboard some more, even though he could tell that Elsa was looking at him. He didn't really have it in him to face her right now.  
  
He felt like sort of a brat.  
  
It was quiet for a minute or two, while Jack was thinking about all the _wonderful_ things North and Bunny would have to say about him in that moment—and Jack didn't notice it right away.  
  
“ _Oh_ —Jack, what did you think of that book I gave you last week? Surely it wasn't as boring as you'd thought?”  
  
 _What?_  
  
“Uh, sure. It had some pretty cool parts.”  
  
“Oh, good. I was hoping you'd find it interesting. Did you enjoy the part where the—”  
  
“Wait. Elsa—what happened to the Summit? Aren't you all jazzed up about going?”  
  
Elsa looked down at her hands.  
  
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I am.”  
  
Jack paused. His throat felt tight all of a sudden.  
  
 _Aw—_ shit.  
  
“Oh." He cleared his throat, uncomfortable as ever. "Uh, then... why... ?”  
  
“Well, it doesn't seem very fair of me, does it?” Elsa asked through a breath of laughter—the kind that he _didn't_ like. “To monopolize the conversation regarding something that you would rather not hear much more about.”  
  
Jack blinked at that. “Oh. Well. It's not like—I mean, I'm just being... You don't have to—”  
  
“Jack, really. I understand.”  
  
 _Shit_.  
  
“No. _Elsa_ —don't listen to me, okay? I'm just being—I don't know.”  
  
He was being a jerk, was what he was.  
  
“I know you detest the Southern Isles—do _not_ argue, Jack, I know it. It'd be so unfair of me to ask you to join me—the heat would be unbearable, I'm certain, and—you'd find it all so boring, or hate everyone, and—I just—you never stop itching in the summertime—”  
  
Itching?  
  
He didn't _itch_ , thank you very much.  
  
“And the _people_ there, you'd loathe them for sure, with all their loaded implications and thinly-veiled slights and _tête-à-têtes_ , and I—I wouldn't be able to act myself, you know, at least not at _first,”_ she claimed, almost pleadingly, as she leaned forward into his space.  
  
“Um. Elsa. I think I—I think I got it.”  
  
“It's just that—Jack, _honestly_ , asking you to accompany me to the Isles would be like inviting you on a journey into Hell.”  
  
Jack's eyes widened.  
  
“ _Elsa._ Did you just... _say_ what I _think_ you said?”  
  
(Well.  
  
 _She wouldn't be wrong._ )  
  
“The point is that... the Summit is my burden of opportunity,” Elsa said quietly, looking down at him with pleading eyes. (Her right hand was at his hip, for balance. Their knees were touching.) “And it'll—it'll be _good_ for me, you know?" (He could feel the warmth of her skin through her skirts.) "It'll be... The point is that no matter how much I'd like to, Jack... I simply can't ask you to bear it with me. No matter how badly I want you to.”  
  
Jack blinked. His tongue was dry and swollen.  
  
“I didn't know you even wanted me to,” he whispered.

( _He got the feeling that she might have laughed,_  
 _but, for some reason—_  
  
 _She didn't._ )

  
“Jack Frost,” she said quietly, with the same damn eyes that saw _all_. “Sometimes I truly wonder what actually goes on in that head of yours.”  
  
Jack swallowed.  
  
“You should ask North,” he echoed, automatically. “I'm sure he'd get a kick out of—”  
  
“Oh, for goodness' sake— _shut_ it, Frost."  
  
And if the pillow fight that followed resulted in three torn cushions and a broken vase, then really, Jack Frost could _not_ be blamed.

. * * * .  
  
But seriously.  
Bunny wasn't allowed to visit anymore.  
  
He was turning out to be a terrible influence.  
  
. * * * .


	101. - dangerous, indeed -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/4/14_. First chapter update of June! I have a couple of them today. :)

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- dangerous, indeed -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_. * * * ._ **  
  
. B O R E D O M .  
  
**

Chess and checkers, Slapjack and embroidery and dancing and reading and _sometimes,_ the quiet monotony of it all was enough to drive him mad.  
  
Elsa made it worth it. Elsa's smiles and laughter and quick wit made it worth it, with her thinly-veiled barbs— _and her not-so-subtle ones_ —and her brightness and fondness and her ever-increasing allowance for mischief. _This_ made it worth it.  
  
But Jack Frost was still bored as hell.

He was on the floor again, twisting uselessly over the rug and hardwood as he pretended to read a book. Elsa was at the window, casually embroidering a decorative cushion while contemplating a map of her kingdom's trade routes.  
  
He was so, _so_ bored.  
  
“Any word from Sideburns?”

( _That_ was how bored he was.)  


“Not yet,” Elsa answered, after a few more stitches had been stitched. She glanced over to him, and she must have been amused by the sight he made, because her thoughtful expression cracked a smile. “He's on leave in the eastern territories for a few weeks, in order to help them prepare for their journey to the Summit. I don't suspect I'll hear from him again until just before we depart for the Isles themselves.”  
  
Hm.  
  
Terrific.  
  
“You excited for Anna's party?”  
  
“Am I excited? Of course I am,” Elsa replied, turning back to her needlework. Jack watched her sew, instead; she was a lot more exciting than this book on ship maintenance, that was for sure.  
  
“When do you think they're gonna announce it?”  
  
“Hm... He would be wise to do so at the Summit, which is when I would declare it... but my father _does_ occasionally heed his more whimsical side.”  
  
Jack didn't know exactly what she meant by that, but he knew enough about Elsa—and enough about the _King_ —to get that she was being diplomatic. Jack figured that was Elsa's way of saying that sometimes the noble and well-intentioned King _does whatever he hell he wants_.  
  
Nobly, of course.  
  
“Do you know what you're gonna say to her, when you see her again?” he asked, flopping onto his back. From the tilt of his neck, he watched the needle and thread disappear and reappear into the hoop of white fabric in her lap... _slip_ , pull, _slip_ , pull.  
  
Slip.  
  
“I... I've thought about it. It will be very difficult, of course, because our explanations for the last however many years are so limited. There will be a great deal to repair, and not many reasonable tools to fix what's been broken.. It's going to take a lot of time and patience, but I have those in spades.”

( _No,_ Jack thought, sudden and dark.  
  
 _You don't_.)  
  
(And _dammit_ —  
he thought he'd gotten rid of that voice.)

  
“So, uh,” Jack cleared his throat, quickly. “You're okay with things not really being... _okay_ ?”  
  
Elsa laughed at the window, sliding the thread on through. _Slip_ , pull, _slip._  
  
“Things are hardly okay as it is,” she said lightly, with that funny kind of resignation he'd been hearing in her voice more and more often as of late. The one that said, _I'm tired of the way things are_ and _I'm going to change it, whether you like it or not_ and _I'm not gonna take anybody's shit_.  
  
Whatever. He was paraphrasing.  
  
“Anything would be better than this,” Elsa continued, sneaking another glance at the pitiful sight he must have been making on the floor. “And with Anna's _party_ ... Well,” she sighed, and—to Jack's delight—set her rosemaling hoop aside. “You can imagine. It's what she's always wanted... And now she'll have a chance to experience it, finally, and meet new people... She'll finally feel the bonds that she's so desired.” Her stared turned out the window, into the sunny late-April skies, and said, “She will probably stay angry with me for some time, but... we'll _finally_ be on our way to fixing this mess. It will be lengthy, but I can wait.”  
  
Jack looked up at her carefully, biting his cheek.  
  
“You can?”  
  
Elsa glanced at him once more. She looked almost chagrined when she shrugged and whispered, “Well... maybe not _easily_ .” Impossibly, Elsa slumped against the wall, just a little, and admitted, “I can _do_ it, but... not well. It's agony to wait.”

( _She_ was telling  
 _him._ )

  
Jack flipped himself onto his stomach and propped himself high onto his elbows. He held up a _serious finger,_ just like North might in the middle of some bizarre lecture. “You know what makes waiting easier?” he asked gravely.  
  
Elsa blinked. “What?” she asked curiously.  
  
 _Thwap_.

. * * * .

“You know... they say _revenge_ is a dish best served—”  
  
He did _not_ have the luxury of finishing that sentence.  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

 

Jack _might_ have deserved the snowball to his left ear, and he'd _probably_ been asking for that blow to the gut. He thought the ice she dropped down his back was a bit much though, because—even though it wasn't like it melted all that quickly against him, and even though it didn't actually _feel_ all that cold to him, anyway—it didn't do a whole lot for the ego to be placed into a pseudo-headlock and have someone shove something down the back of your shirt.  
  
And it took really long time to shake out all the cubes, too.  
  
“I want to tell Anna about my magic,” she told him later, when they were lying side-by-side on the hardwood floor. Jack was careful, this time, to make sure that their elbows would not touch. “She should know the truth... And if I'm to see her again, like a sister should, then it's only fair that she knows the dangers.”  
  
“You're not dangerous,” Jack said immediately.  
  
Elsa's eyes slipped toward his.

(Have you forgotten? _she asked, if not with words, then with her eyes._  
 _Her blank stare and her thinly-pressed lips and her tight shoulders._  
  
 _Her Memories._ )

“I could be,” she whispered.  
  
 _But you're not_ , Jack wanted to say. She _wasn't_ , because she was always in control, and she was learning her powers, and the protection placed down on her by her parents wasn't _needed_ anymore. She was stronger, and wiser, and cautious and brave. She was loyal and caring, and so much more than what her father expected her to be, or what her mother missed, or what Jack believed in.  
  
“You're not,” he said, very seriously, with every ounce of belief and conviction that he had in his possession, because if _Jack_ believed it, then maybe—one day—Elsa would, too.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .  
  
Elsa smiled back at him, a small and fragile thing;  
it was precious and genuine, and flooded his gut with strange, familiar warmth,  
and in that moment, Jack remembered— _swift, and shattering_ —that Elsa could be very, _  
very_ dangerous, indeed.

. * * * .

 


	102. - to avoid -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/4/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- to avoid -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * .  
 **  
. R E A S S U R A N C E S .**

 

He was really hoping to avoid this, but it seemed like he was left without much choice.  
  
Elsa would never complain about Jack attending to his duties, so it was no surprise when she took the news of his temporary leave with impressive grace. She might have actually been a little proud of him, too.

Somehow, that only made it worse.  
  
 _Just a week or so_ , he assured her. Until the second week of May, perhaps, and he'd _be around_. She shouldn't expect to see him, of course, because he'd be _very busy_ , but if he was in the neighborhood he'd be sure to send a cool breeze her way, or leave some frost on her window from afar. Elsa was delighted, and commended him on his dedication.  
  
Jack tried not to be too disappointed.  
  
Tried to remind himself that he _would_ be around, in Arendelle, watching over Kristoff and Anna. Tried to remind himself that there was a _reason_ why he was leaving for a few days, why he needed to get his shit together. He'd been stupid about it the first time, leaving for Kilimanjaro without any notice, any reassurances, and Jack Frost had made many a stupid mistake in his lifetimes, but he rarely made the same mistake twice.  
  
He was a Guardian, and it was time to remind himself of that.  
  
Again.  
  
And if the only way he could actually treasure his time with Elsa was to _not_ think _really inappropriate thoughts about how nice it might be for her to kiss him_ again, then taking a few days off was just what he was going to have to do.  
  
Again.

. * * * .


	103. - delicious buns -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/4/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- delicious buns -_  
  
. * * * .

  
Or, five things Jack Frost learned  
during that first week of May:

  
. * * * .  
  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 1 ) -_

Anna was just as enraptured with the idea of true love as ever, even if her enthusiasm for it was a bit more... _subdued_. She and the Queen had breakfast or brunch nearly every day, where they took tea in her private parlor and talked romance novels and party planning and the handsome gentlemen who would be attending the Summit. (It was all very proper, of course—until it _wasn't_ , or at least dangerously close to _not;_ Jack Frost became very wary of attending brunches with the two royal ladies after hearing one too many ambiguous comments about the _bakers' buns_ , even if Jack _did_ agree that they were the most delicious buns ever tasted. The buns, Jack told himself, were half the reason why he was so content to drop by their brunches in the first place.  
  
The _bakery's_ buns. Not the baker's. _Although_ , he supposed that the baker's weren't—  
  
Never mind.)

 _ _.__  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 2 ) -_

Looking at the Queen was just as painful as ever, but... for different reasons. Two days after saying his temporary goodbye to Elsa, it struck Jack that he was _embarrassed_ by what the others had so delicately declared a crush; not to say that he wasn't before—because he _had_ been—but now, instead of feeling a sharp pinch of shame over the inappropriate nature of the attraction, what he mostly felt was crippling humiliation over just how little he had been able to control himself. Three hundred years of so-called life experience, and for _what?_ So he could zero his sights in on the only mother- _figure_ of his special assignment's life, and jack off to fantasies of her in a nearby forest while taking very little actual notice of who she was as a person?  
  
Solid.  
  
As it turned out, he rather liked the Queen as a person—once he was able to overcome the near-incapacitating guilt and shame over just how much he'd _liked_ her before. She was a very patient woman, who upheld the rules but didn't mind bending them, and who listened carefully before speaking. Anna seemed to think that the Queen always knew exactly what to say, or how to fix a problem, and they spent many a morning discussing everything from the most significant of questions to the most trivial of leisurely topics.  
  
The Queen had a laugh that was very much like Anna's.

 _ _.__  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 3 ) -_

Kristoff was sixteen and _big_. Like.  
  
Gigantic.  
  
It'd been at least a year since Jack had _really_ visited him, and he wasn't proud of that fact. Sven was also _enormous,_ enough that North would have been surely impressed, and the two of them were doing quite well for themselves. They still hung around with the Trolls, apparently, though Jack never visited the garden himself, but he heard the two of them talking about the newest additions to the family while they worked. He seemed well, for the most part, if not a little gruff and impatient, and business was always better during the summertime.  
  
Kristoff decided that he was going to start saving for a new sleigh.

 _ _.__  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_\- ( 4 ) -_

The King was still kind of a douchebag.  
  
A _noble_ douchebag, who kept his word and believed in honor and duty, and who cared about the poverty creeping at the fringes of his kingdom, and who organized parties of cropping experts to set forth and teach the outer villages how to make better use of the land, and had all the surplus salted meats from the countryside sent by wagons to the farthest trading posts near the river, and who visited the sick and the needy when—  
  
Okay.  
  
So he wasn't a total douchebag.  
  
And he was still very much in love with the Queen, which was really fucking awkward when Jack first noticed. ( _Because_.)  
  
For example. Jack had to look away during mealtimes when the King and Queen locked eyes across the table, or when he reached over and took the Queen's hand in his—sometimes during completely inappropriate times, too, like during important meetings with ambassadors, on weird shit like fishing laws and sea bass.  
  
He even caught them kissing a few times, too, but yeah—Jack didn't really want to go into that.  
  
(And it wasn't just like a peck on the cheek, either. The King must have been pretty dashing in his day, because he had no trouble making grand gestures of swooping unsuspecting Queens into his arms for a passionate kiss in the middle of deserted corridors, and _really,_ it was hardly appropriate.  
  
But then again, Jack probably shouldn't have been snooping down that hallway, either.)  
  
But again.  
  
Not going into that.

 _ _.__  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

 _\- ( 5 ) -_  
  
Toothiana didn't mind being sent flowers at work. _  
  
_( _Even ones_  
 _made out of ice_.)

. * * *.


	104. - her swing -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/4/14_. Last one for today! The next chapter should be a bit more on the lengthier side, so no promises for when to expect another update. We also have a number of different end-of-the-year events spiraling around at work, and I've got a midterm project due Monday, and a wedding to attend on Saturday, sooooooooo. :( We shall see! ~~COMMENT LOVE ALWAYS HELPS HA HAHA HA HA no, but really.~~
> 
> ALSO, another [gorgeous doodle](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/87510908267/and-before-he-could-think-twice-about-it-jack) from [**chickensaredoodling**](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/)! Honestly, I'm getting so spoiled. <3 <3 Check it out!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- her swing -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

.

. * * * . **  
  
. R O O F T O P S .  
  
**

Jack also discovered that, at some point in the last year or so, Anna had taken to climbing out her window.  
  
And not just her bedroom window. She slipped out of the guests' rooms in the eastern wing and onto the tiny ledge of window sill in the drawing room. She roamed the balcony of the library and dangled her feet above the hedges, and looked out upon the gardens, over the gates and across the fjord. Her fingers dug into shingles still damp with rain, and took in the fresh chill of the air, the quiet energy of a dazzling, springtime sunrise.  
  
It was quickly becoming the only time of the day when Anna felt any real peace.  
  
He could see it in the way she breathed.

( _She forgot, sometimes,_  
 _to let herself exhale before jumping to the next breath,_  
 _before gulping down the next bite of air._  
 _She would swallow it down until the air in her lungs grew thick and heavy, ready to burst,_  
 _stale and stagnant and lonely_.)

Her rooftop adventures were not reserved only for mornings, of course. The ridge below the southern tower became her favorite place to read, when the light hit it just right. The dips and crests of the rooftops became her playground; the window washer's scaffold, her swing.  
  
Eager and easily delighted, Anna was always ready for the next step, was brave and excited and thoughtful and ready to take the plunge. She craved adventure and romance, and sought such stories from the novels on her shelves, and sat on the rooftops of the castle to dream.  
  
She watched the townspeople from afar, admiring their lives and their dependence on one another, unseen and unnoticed from the safety of her favored perches. She admired them greatly, their individualities and tiny quirks, which she came to learn through the passing of the wind, and she never once set foot on the grounds beyond the castle's gates. ( _Why do you stay?_ Jack wondered. _The world is yours._ ) Anna entertained herself with grand stories for each villager, which she unabashedly voiced aloud, and for the most part—  
  
She thought she was happy.

. * * * .  
  
It was awfully familiar.  
  
. * * *.

 


	105. - worth hiding -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/5/14_. Oh, look--A CHAPTER UDPATE. I don't even know where the energy came from to pop this out, especially in the middle of a work week from crazytown and with a group midterm project still to finish, and I'm not even done with the week yet so WISH ME LUCK, OKAY??  <3 <3
> 
> Also, is there anything better than an embarrassed!Jack?
> 
> I am not so sure.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- worth hiding -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_.  
_

. * * * .  
 **  
. T H E   N E W   M O O N .**

He collapsed to the ground in the main arena of the Warren with loud, dramatic flourish.  
  
Bunny didn't bother to look up from his gardening.  
  
Jack was just as restless and grumpy as the day before—and the day before that—and Bunny had apparently had enough of his horsing around. It wasn't a mean-spirited cold shoulder or anything—at least, Jack didn't _think_ so—but Bunny was somehow incredibly busy, all the time, and when it came to the limits of his patience with Jack, he'd never beat around the bush.  
  
So Jack stayed that way for some time, flat on his back in the soft grass, soaking up the strange sunlight of the Warren. (The kind that never felt too hot, or too harsh, or bright enough to hurt.) He listened to sounds of Bunny working quietly off to the side, thinking of what Elsa might be doing at the castle and what she might say to him when he finally returned. ( _He wondered, not for the first time, if she was waiting for him by the window_.) Eventually, the soft shuffling of dirt and planting of seeds faded into the background, then stopped altogether, and then Jack noticed the still of silence.  
  
When he peered up in Bunny's direction, five feet away, he saw what had captured the Pooka's attention anew: a tiny brush, a palette of pastel paints, and at least a dozen eggs.  
  
“I thought you had magic to do that,” Jack commented from the ground, staring at the colorful egg in Bunny's grasp. His voice sounded strangely loud against the hushed trickling of the creak, but it was too late to take it back. And the egg actually looked pretty cool, the way the colors all mixed together like that.  
  
But Jack wasn't about to mention it.  
  
“These are next year's prototypes,” Bunny explained, without a hint of derision or scorn. “I made some before the end of Easter, but... Well. I decided we could use something a little brighter this year.”  
  
Bunny set the first egg carefully to the side and reached for another. Jack's eyes lingered at the egg on the ground.

( _Something a little  
brighter_.)

“Any word on the teeth?” Jack asked quietly, staring at the egg.  
  
Bunny stayed quiet, carefully dipping his brush into the paint.  
  
“Count's at seventy-six,” he answered, just as quiet, and Jack's brow furrowed in thought.  
  
 _Seventy-six..._  
  
“Tooth's nearly killing herself with worry, but at the moment there just ain't nothing we can do to help. Unless it's finding the teeth.”  
  
Jack's ears perked. “Can we do that?”  
  
Bunny swiped another line of blue onto the shell with perfect precision; Jack wasn't sure whether to marvel at his calm, or to be annoyed. Finally, Bunny said, “We can't do much yet for the teeth that have been Lost. _” Stroke._ “But we're working on makin' sure the count doesn't get any higher. North is cookin' something up with the Man in the Moon.”  
  
“Really?” Jack shifted up onto his elbows. “Like what?”  
  
“Well. Manny sees a lot, which is how we know what needs to be done, mostly... but he can't see everything. And they're tryin' to find a way to fix that.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Bunny carefully dragged his brush over the circumference in a single, delicate stroke. The bristles were no thicker than a few single strands of hair. Jack watched as Bunny slowly dipped his brush into a dollop of paint and said, “Tooth discovered a pattern to the attacks.”  
  
“What?” Jack sat up, abruptly shifting closer. He was careful not to squish any eggs. “She did? _When_? How did she figure it out?”  
  
 _Why didn't she tell me?_  
  
“After taking a closer look, it turns out that Pitch has only been going after teeth once a month... when Manny is least likely to see him.”  
  
“Wait— _see_ him? When Manny is—?” Jack stopped short, stomach dropping with realization. “Wait _...”_  
  
“I think you got the picture,” Bunnymund answered, keeping his eyes on his work. “The only sure time that Manny's sight is almost completely blocked. The new moon.”  
  
Well.  
  
 _That_ was quite the piece of news.  
  
“But— _how_?” Jack demanded, heart fluttering like a caged bird. “I mean, like—it's not—it's not like he's _watching_ us or anything. Right?”  
  
Bunny paused, looking away from his egg for the first time. “ _That's_ what you're worried about?” He asked, dry with exasperation. “I tell you that Pitch has got himself a bloody attack schedule, and _you're_ worried about the Moon spyin' on your pranks?” His sly eyes turned teasingly toward Jack's, “Got something you don't want the old man to see?”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Holy _shite_ ,” Bunnymund said suddenly, nearly dropping his egg. He was staring at Jack in a way that was _not_ helpful and Jack did _not_ appreciate it. “Look at the blood red in your cheeks—you _do_ have something worth hiding, don't you?”  
 _  
—whaaat?_  
  
“ _What._ I don't—there isn't anything going on with my face!” Jack declared, almost venomously. “I don't _blush!_ ”  
  
“Sure, you don't.”  
  
No.

( _No_.)

Bunnymund didn't understand.  
  
Jack couldn't blush.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(He _couldn't.  
_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

.  
  
Because if he _could_ , then  
that would mean—)  
.

.

.

.

.

( _Holy—  
_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._  
  
“Look, don't you worry, mate—he's got loads of important things to look out for.  
Manny doesn't give two fucks about what you do with your wooden staff.”  
  
“You know, sometimes I really fucking hate you.”

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

— _shit.)_

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * .


	106. - sympathy thing -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/8/14_. Midterm complete! Time to celebrate with a lengthy chapter update. :) :)
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments! <3

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- sympathy thing -_  
  
. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

.

. **  
**

**. B L O O D .**

Shit.  
  
_Shit_.  
  
Just when he thought this couldn't get any more embarrassing.  
  
Shit.  
  
“Frost, what in the _hell_ are you muttering about over there?”  
  
“How ugly your petunia bushes are.”  
  
“Well, put a sock in it or you'll be eating them.”  
  
There was a problem.  
  
Jack Frost wasn't supposed to be able to blush.  
  
Because when it was too hot, his skin got dry and flaky, and it itched terribly, and— _Elsa fucking noticed, fuck my life—_ and his throat felt tight and scratchy, but his skin didn't, like, _flush_ or anything _._ In the summertime, his eyes actually burned, and his body felt exhausted, like it was _always_ , always sun-tired, but the _feeling_ of hot—that was all Memory. The heat affected his skin and his eyes, his energy and his moods, but temperature was all relative to him now, the guy whose body never rose much higher in degrees than freezing.  
  
Not much felt hot when your touch turned everything cold.  
  
And _technically_ , Jack Frost could bleed, so maybe it _did_ make sense that he could blush, too, but then _technically_ he was supposed to be dead, so what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Frost.”  
  
Jack's head swiveled around, his brow arching high. “The hell?” he muttered, eyeing Bunny curiously, who looked back, unamused.  
  
“Will you quit it?”  
  
“Quit what?”  
  
Bunny swore beneath his breath, too quiet to hear. “Just keep the crazy rambling to yourself, all right? This takes concentration, for fuck's sake.”  
  
“Damn, Bunny—what spoiled _your_ eggs?”  
  
“Just keep your trap shut.”  
  
Jack shook his head, returning his gaze back to the somber sweep of the creek. This was why he _didn't_ come to the Warren.  
  
Always getting yelled at for something.  
  
“Hey. Pass me that trowel, there?”

( _So what was the deal, then?_  
_Was Bunny just pulling his leg before?_  
  
_Had he actually seen the blood rush to Jack's face, then—_  
_like a human's?_ )

  
He thought he'd been beyond that unfortunate side effect—had actually _reveled_ in the security of a brilliantly pale poker face, but _now—_ fuck. Was this better or worse? Because if Jack _could_ blush, and if he _had_ blushed— _however many fucking times??_ —then it was all too possible that _Elsa,_ probably number one on the list of people in the universe who did _not_ need to see him blushing—  
  
Probably had.

( _Fuck._ )

But wouldn't she have said something, if she'd noticed something as peculiar as a _blush_ on Jack Frost's face? Like—maybe he'd looked ill, or something? _He'd certainly felt that way—_ but no, Elsa would be too polite to mention something like that aloud, wouldn't she, _oh, god, ohgod_. Oh, god.

  
( _FUCK._ )

“ _Crikey—_ ”  
  
Jack jolted back as Bunny reached over and swooped a hand toward the trowel by his hand with an angry swipe, “I'll get the damn thing myself.”  
  
“Jeez, Bunny, chill out,” Jack snarked defensively, irritated and, honestly, a little disoriented. “You could've just asked.”  
  
“I _did_ ask—you were too busy muttering to yourself like a loose nut to notice.”  
  
Embarrassment spiked through Jack's gut, hot and fierce.  
  
“What's your problem, man?” he bit out, surprised by his own flare of rage. “It's just a fucking trowel.”  
  
Bunnymund stared at him like he'd grown a second head. “ _My_ problem?” he echoed, patience visibly fraying. “ _My_ problem is that you come in here, two weeks after Easter, when I'm busier than a fucking honeybee, and I ask you to do _one_ favor—”  
  
“Two, if you count the oranges.”  
  
“For _fuck's_ sake, Jack—” The trowel hit a nearby rock, jarring enough to draw a wince; Bunny was angry now, leaning forward on his haunches, voice and hackles raised. “You're so wrapped up in your own fucking head you can't ever listen to a whole damn _conversation_ —unless it's to stick in some cocky, shit-start comment that you find so fiendishly fucking clever, and then you go carelessly blurtin' shit out loud without thinking twice about keeping it filtered! _Fuck_ , Frost—get a fucking hold of yourself!”  
  
Jack snapped.  
  
“Well, jesus, Bunny, did it occur to you that maybe for three hundred fucking years _I never had to fucking worry about it!_ ” Jack snarled, voice rising all the way to the end, echoing through the tunnels with with long trails of anger billowing behind—and then in a single exhale, _sharp_ , and fierce, “ _Shit._ ”  
  
For Jack, it took three whole seconds for the awkwardness to set in:  
  
The words hanging in the air. The anger slowly evaporating, tension shifting almost tangibly; it was like the winds had changed direction, then completely stopped, no warning whatsoever, and then all that was left was Jack and Bunny, staring at one another.  
  
In silence.  
  
“I'm sorry, man,” said Bunny, quiet and sincere and contrite, and something stabbed Jack Frost in the chest, something hard and cold and—  
  
“Aw, _shit,_ Bunny—do me a favor and don't bother with the sympathy thing, okay?” he groaned, turning away. “I'm fine.”  
  
But he wasn't fine, and apparently neither was Bunny.  
  
He didn't try to close any of the distance or anything, but he settled himself back onto the ground, quiet and easy, and after a few long moments of hearing nothing but the creek, Bunnymund gently cleared his throat. “I think we all tend to... I think we forget, sometimes,” he apologized, and then, as if any further clarification was needed, “What you went through.”  
  
Yeah.  
  
Because Jack didn't really have that problem.  
  
“It's fine,” Jack insisted, then cleared his throat, too. It helped lessen the edge some, even if he couldn't get rid of it entirely. “That was still pretty shitty of me. I shouldn't be makin' excuses, anyways,” he muttered.  
  
Bunny looked like wanted to say something to that, but Jack didn't really want to hear it.  
  
“Really,” Jack pushed through. His throat still hurt from shouting. “I guess... I guess Sandy's not the only one I need to practice communicating with.”  
  
It didn't come right away, but eventually Bunny smiled a wry grin. _Good,_ Jack thought. Laugh it off. Make it light.  
  
_Pretend like it never happened._  
  
“Well, in that case...” Bunny began smoothly, playing along easily. ( _Good_.) He was almost smiling, actually, when he hitched an elbow over a knee and said, “You should probably start hanging around the Workshop instead, because North only has two modes of communication: loud, and _really_ loud. Or Tooth's palace,” he teased, to which Jack _glared_ , viciously. “Or anywhere but here, really.”  
  
“What?” Jack complained, snark back in full-swing. “But Bunny, you and I have so much _communicating_ left to do.”  
  
Oops.  
  
The joke was over, apparently.  
  
“Listen here, you little frost monkey—”  
  
But Bunnymund never got out the rest of the insult.  
  
Jack tumbled backwards as the entire Warren _shuddered_ , a single pulse that sent the grass swishing with a nonexistent breeze and the rocks trembling in their homes. The walls actually shook, like they were thrumming, and then everything was still, and Bunny was looking up toward one of the tunnels with interest.  
  
“Come on,” Bunny ordered, before Jack had any opportunity to comment, or ask questions, or freak. “Time to check the globe.”  
  
Jack made the trek down the tunnel with wobbly knees, but he didn't dare let his feet off the ground after that shit-show of rumbling earth. (If the ground was going to start to do weird shit, then he wanted to be able to feel it _before_ the walls started collapsing.) Bunny was still completely unfazed by it all, which could mean just about anything.  
  
Soon enough, they came to a familiar room with a familiar platform and the only globe Bunnymund had in his possession. It was well-lit and bright in the cavern, with its moss-covered walls and blooming flora, but Jack had seen it all before; his eyes immediately found a little blue light, shimmering gently in the north, quiet and calm, and then the entire globe shuddered before his eyes, like scales flipping over in a wave of quiet shuffling, and blind panic gripped Jack's chest as the lights disappeared under a wave of new tiles, new mountains and new seas—  
  
“That's Berk,” Bunnymund pointed, and Jack's eyes were immediately drawn to a rough patch of peninsula on this new globe. His chest still felt tight, like the feeling had left marks along the insides of his ribs. ( _The lights are still there, Frost, in Arendelle—even though you can't see them. They're there. They're real_.) Jack tried to focus on evening out his breathing as Bunny stepped closer to hover a finger just above another shimmering light—this one a deep pine green.  
  
It was pulsing.

Correction: it was freaking out.  
  
“Another Turning Point?” Jack managed, and he was proud of the way it sounded, like he was only slightly breathless.  
  
“Aye,” Bunny confirmed, drawing an invisible circle around its circumference. “It's been going on for at least a few weeks, but something must have just happened a few minutes ago.”  
  
Jack waited, but Bunny said nothing. He just looked and looked at the light, watching it, and when nothing else happened, Jack asked, “Aren't you gonna go check on her or something?”  
  
Bunny let his hand slip back to his side, then breathed deep, turning back to Jack with an amused expression; Jack didn't like it. “It's a he.”  
  
Oh.  
  
“ _Okay_ , so yeah, aren't you gonna go check on _him_?”  
  
Bunny was doing that thoughtful thing again, where he was carefully considering how best to explain; on the one hand, Jack appreciated it, and on the other, he kinda wanted to punch Bunnymund in the face.  
  
“I told you once before that every Turning Point is different. This one's been ticking for a while now, but I figure Hiccup's got at least another two more weeks before he reaches the pinnacle... The clan is still away on its search for the dragons' lair, so my bet is that I'll head my way down there when the warriors start to journey back.”  
  
Dragons? _Weeks_? Warriors?  
  
“Dude's name is _Hiccup_?”  
  
A sharp rap to the back of the head had Jack muttering curses into his hoodie's sleeve. “Smart mouth,” Bunny snapped, crossing his arms. “You really need to get your fucking priorities in order.”  
  
“My priorities _are_ in order,” Jack retorted, then privately admitted that Bunny may have had a point. (He wasn't very likely to admit that in general, much less during a time when he was still cradling a soon-to-be-bruise at the back of his skull.) “I'm here, aren't I?”  
  
“Yeah, and where _should_ you be?”  
  
Jack's half-grin slid downward. Crossing his arms, Jack looked up at Bunny and challenged, “You saying I'm not doin' my job?”  
  
Bunny actually rolled his eyes. “I'm saying that you spend an awful lot of time hanging around sun gardens for a sprite who plays with snow,” he teased, to which Jack had no real answer.  
  
“What, like chillin' in the Sahara with Sandy would be any better?” Jack argued reasonably, kicking at a pebble. The grass was really green in here. “And I can't hang out with North—you _know_ how excited he gets about free labor.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bunny cocked a brow, meaningful and curious and, “What about Tooth?”  
  
Jack glanced up suspiciously. “What about her?”  
  
Bunny shrugged, with strangely casual flair for the directness that followed: “Well, you must know by now,” he said simply. “You're not half as dense as you pretend to be.”  
  
Jack blinked. Something in the back of Jack's head starting ringing, like warning bells, but all Jack could think to say was, “ _What_?”  
  
“Or hell, maybe you are.”  
  
“No, I—I don't... What the hell happened to not wanting to betray a friend's confidence?” Jack demanded suddenly, thinking of a New Year's Eve and too much vodka and holy shit, was that really three years ago?  
  
Four?  
  
Bunny's expression was very peculiar, indeed, when he smiled down at Jack, cautious and teasing... and almost apologetic.  
  
“It ain't really a secret, mate.”

. * * * .

 


	107. - all yours -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/9/14_. Part 1 of 2 for this evening. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> ~~also, don't look at the /180 at the top of the fic info, don't look at it, don'tjudgeidon'tknowwhati'mdoinganymore~~

 

. * * * .  
  
- _all yours_ -  
  
. * * * .

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. * * * .  
  
. **S C H E D U L E S .**

It wasn't quite yet the second week of May, but Jack Frost hardly cared.

He flew to the castle first thing in the morning, paying very little attention to the trail of frost he left in his wake. It was _supposed_ to be a sunny day—  
  
But not yet.  
  
He greeted Pavel as he normally did—with a _good morning!_ and a fast gust of wind, strong enough to challenge his hat—and kicked up the dirt along the beaten path of the courtyard with a hollering laugh.  
  
It felt good to be back.

. * * * .

 

Elsa wasn't in her room, which wasn't that big of a surprise since she'd been taking to roaming the halls a lot more frequently nowadays, especially in the mornings and afternoons. She wasn't in the library, but Jack didn't really figure she would be—these days she much preferred the more secluded, private library in the loft on the highest floor, after all—though she wasn't there, either.

Every turn became a new piece to the game, heart thundering in his chest all the while. Was she on one of the balconies on the second floor, reading a book? ( _She was probably facing the sea, keeping an eye out for him_.) Or maybe she decided to take tea with her mother for once, in her parlor? (No. Probably not.) _Maybe_ —through pure, random happenstance, she and Anna happened to bump into one another in the halls?  
  
Not likely.  
  
Jack soared through the corridors, taking delight in the familiar feel and space of hallways that felt like his own. Everything from the dark wood to the rosemaling tapestries felt like something to be missed, and planting his feet into the soft tufts of rug was a kind of familiar comfort that was just as soothing as it was thrilling. Jack held tight to his staff and took off down the hallway by foot, relishing in the quiet sounds of his bare feet against the floor; even when _trying_ to make a racket, he only managed a whisper of noise.

( _It sure made it a hell of a lot easier to sneak up on Elsa, though._  
  
 _And, okay—_  
 _where the hell was she?_ )

He hadn't seen her in days.  
  
He'd _had_ a legitimate reason, though; he'd been letting his own personal shit get in the way of his Guardian duty, and it wasn't right. (It wasn't _helping._ ) And yeah, he'd been worried when his thoughts had drifted into dangerous territory— _again_ —but these last few days had been everything that he'd needed to fix his own stupid mess: he reaffirmed his role as a Guardian of Childhood, of Fun and happiness and innocence, and spent time with Bunny, and checked on Kristoff, and flirted pitifully with Toothiana, and got to know the Queen a little better.  
  
He could totally control himself.  
  
Yes. Elsa was beautiful. And she was smart and clever, and his best friend, and his first special assignment, and this was _totally natural_ , and he was totally prepared to come back to that now. No more getting distracted by stupid shit, or acting weird, or missing her for stupid reasons—like not _being_ there in the first place, for stupid reasons. He'd been away during the flower festival, and he was dying to know what else he'd missed, like—what if she'd caught Pavel and Olga using pet-names for each other, and he hadn't been there to see it? What if there'd been a really awesome sunset that she'd had to watch all by herself?  
  
He wondered if Elsa wrote about him in her journal while he was away, and what she would have written about him— _like how much she missed him, maybe?_ —and he wondered if she'd want to play chess or Slapjack first and seriously, _fuck_ , where the fuck was she?  
  
Excitement gave way to the tiniest fringes of concern, but as always, frustration was a lot easier to deal with so Jack focused on that; he marched down the hallways— _a slight spring of flight in his step_ —looking left and right, and racked his brain: It was the first week of May. It was springtime. It was early morning, just after breakfast, two hours after sunrise, and the library loft was empty—  
  
 _Of course_.  
  
Jack took off down the hall at full-speed, surfing atop his staff. He zoomed down the staircase and through the grand ballroom, alerting one or two servants to a cold breeze, and then slipped out the slightly ajar door to the servants' quarters before either of them had a chance to pull their collars more closely around their necks. The ceilings were much lower, so Jack rode his staff closer to the floor, and took sharp turns around corners and twists, careful to listen for the sounds of moving humans; the last thing he wanted to do this morning was accidentally run through someone.  
  
Finally, the archway to the gardens came into view. Jack slipped off of his Shepherd's staff just at the last moment before stone and mortar gave way to freshly-cut grass, and when he stepped out into the clearing, the sun was shining pink and blue spring clouds on the horizon. (He might catch sight of Anna on the rooftops, he realized. _Maybe I should..._ But no. Elsa didn't need to know about Anna's climbing habits—  
  
Not until she could climb, herself.)  
  
Jack wandered through the inner-gardens, taking a moment or two to privately marvel at the beauty of fresh springtime blossoms and fine green leaves. ( _It's okay if you still like springtime,_ he reminded himself, absently.) The sun was warm, but not harsh enough to be uncomfortable, and before long Jack was strolling along with one hand in his pocket and another walking his staff.  
  
She was seated on a stone bench at the far edge of the garden, reading beneath a cherry tree.  
  
Jack's heart leapt into his throat, closing it tight. She looked so calm and peaceful, her back facing towards him, and he was almost hesitant to disturb her.  
  
Almost.  
  
She hadn't noticed his arrival yet, and this presented _quite_ an opportunity. Slowly, Jack stalked closer, considering his options: could he get away with a little prank? Just a _tiny_ little surprise? (They could call it _training,_ he thought. Reactionary training. Reacting to _surprises_. It seemed practical enough, right?) _Maybe_ —if he got close enough—he wouldn't even need to make any noise or anything. Just test her senses, or something, and how well she dealt with—  
  
“You're early.”  
  
Jack started, then froze on the spot.  
  
Elsa turned her head towards him slowly, soft coil of hair shifting gently over her shoulder. She was still quite a few paces from him now, but her expression was clearly visible under the hanging shade of the tree.  
  
He'd missed her a lot.  
  
“I didn't realize I was on a schedule,” he quipped, half a beat later, then stepped onto a ledge of fresh air, walking himself higher. With a graceful fall, Jack let himself abruptly twist downwards in front of her, hanging by the soles of his feet in mid-air. The top of one foot hooked comfortable behind his other knee and his staff still rested against his shoulder, his other hand was still in his pocket. He was quite pleased with himself.  
  
Elsa smirked at him, eyeing the spiky tufts of his upside-down hair, and Jack grinned back at her, noting how quickly she'd tucked away her book.  
  
“This is an interesting look for you,” Elsa nodded, then gestured at him hanging about. She was clearly trying not to laugh and, honestly, _when_ would she learn?  
  
“Are you implying something unkind, your Majesty?” he offered smoothly, and it was probably sort of hard to see the exact expression on his face, but he was aiming for like clever and insinuating and teasing. He'd like to think that he'd achieved all three.  
  
“Never,” Elsa smiled.  
  
For some reason, the next part of his little charade slipped his mind. Just—gone. One second, he had the perfect quip, and the next? Nada. _Zip._  
  
Nothing.  
  
Ultimately, Jack was left hanging upside down in the air, staring at Elsa's amused smile, stumbling in silence while she waited for him to do something. Or pretty much anything, actually.

( _Is the blood rushing to your head?_ a voice asked.)

Jack shook the thought away, like a gnat.  
  
“Have you come to visit the North Mountain?”  
  
Jack reared back, understandably confused. “North Mountain?” he laughed, like this was the funniest thing he'd heard all day, and it _was_ . “I mean—it's practically a playground, but.” _No._ “That's not why I'm here.”  
  
Elsa's mouth opened, then closed. Abruptly, she licked her lips and asked, “Are we going to continue the entire conversation this way?”  
  
He blinked, staring pointedly at her eyes. “What way?” he asked, blithely. Jack Frost was _not_ showing off.  
  
Okay.  
  
Maybe a little.  
  
Elsa's pointed stare was staring to wear him down, anyway.  
  
“All right,” Jack sighed, then easily curved himself through the air, floating down into a cross-legged seat beside her on the bench. It already felt warm from the morning sun. “This is a nice little spot you got here... I thought you liked the other gardens better, though?”  
  
“They're closer to the stables,” Elsa explained, smoothing the cover of her book. “And Anna is going riding with father today.”  
  
Jack watched her play with the corners of her book, half-wishing that he hadn't opened his mouth; Elsa had been gifted a horse, too, when she was young. A beautiful mare, or so he'd heard.  
  
Elsa had never exactly been allowed to ride her.  
  
“Have you had a busy week?”  
  
Jack lifted his head, blinking away his gaze from the long expanse of grass. She was smiling at him again, but not quite as widely as usual, and it took him an unsettling moment to remember that they weren't in her room; they were in the gardens, in the sunlight, and clearly visible from many a castle window.  
  
Well.  
  
She was, anyway.  
  
“Same old,” Jack nodded absently, because he didn't really feel like talking about any heavy stuff with Elsa just yet, like how the new moon had just become the most dangerous night of the month. He didn't want to think about that stuff at the moment. “Wanna go back up to you room and tell me what I missed?”  
  
“Oh, that's all right,” Elsa replied. “I rather like the sunlight.”  
  
Uh— _duh,_ Frost.  
  
Well, that was a stupid thing to ask.  
  
“Okay, well... What do you wanna do first?” Jack asked, leaning back on his hands and trying to pretend like the last few moments had never happened. He was not off to a smooth start today.  
  
“First?” Elsa blinked in confusion. “But you're just stopping by, aren't you?”  
  
 _Stopping by?_ Jack thought, alarmed. His hands dug more firmly into the bench beneath him, their heels pressing firm into the smooth texture of weathered stone. “Well, uh.. yeah. I guess,” Jack answered awkwardly. “But like, aren't I _always_ stopping by? It just depends on how long any given stopping-by visit might last for.”  
  
“Oh,” Elsa breathed, and he _really_ did not like the look of surprise on her face. “You intend to stay, then?”  
  
What the fuck?  
  
“Uh...” Jack felt something squeeze and twist in his chest, then drop heavily into the pit of his stomach. “Yeah. That was... sort of the plan.”  
  
She must have caught onto his confusion— _or, who knew?_ _Maybe it was clearly visible all of over his face, pale or red or whatever the fuck color it was_ —because suddenly her hand was on his arm and she was leaning her head down to catch his gaze.  
  
She was wearing gloves.  
  
( _Outside_ , he reminded himself. It was only because they were _outside_.)  
  
It was sort of hard to breathe.  
  
“Jack, forgive me—I didn't mean to _assume..._ Please understand. You see, it's just that I wasn't expecting you for another week.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Okay.  
  
“No—Jack, _listen_ —I am _glad_ that you've returned—”  
  
“Are you?” Jack twisted, staring her straight in the eye because he was stupid, stupid, _stupid_.  
  
A full second passed, in which he could see the shock and the dismay run clear all over her face. “Don't be ridiculous,” Elsa harshly replied, and Jack couldn't help the irrational swell of anger that slid up into his throat, bitter and hot and acid all over. He swallowed it down, and turned away, ashamed of himself, and still a little angry, too.  
  
What the hell was wrong with him?  
  
“It's just that there are _things_ I must take care of,” Elsa continued, a tad impatiently, “and I do my best to arrange them for whenever you are gone. You wouldn't enjoy them in the slightest, Jack, but they are _important_ , so I try work them around the times when you'll be busy elsewhere.”  
  
Oh, great. So she was trying to plan her life around _his_ schedule?  
  
'Cuz that made him feel so much better.  
  
“Elsa, _I_ don't even know where I'll be when,” Jack pointed out, feeling strangely torn about the whole thing. Should he feel honored that Elsa wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, even to the point of rearranging what little control she had over her life to better suit their time together? He mostly just felt guilty.  
  
“Well... you could be at my window tonight, after sundown?” Elsa suggested, gently nudging his elbow with hers. She was teasing him, he realized, but she still sounded a little angry, and he wasn't about to push his luck. He wanted to forget that this conversation ever happened—to let go of this stupid, unnecessary weirdness he'd just displayed—and he wanted to return her lightheartedness with his own. His own anger was quickly dissipating, and was slowly being replaced by a strange and hollow feeling.  
  
“Tonight?” Jack echoed, mouth dry.  
  
It was still only morning.  
  
He heard Elsa sigh beside him. The hollow feeling twisted and grew, crawling up into his lungs. Was he just an inconvenience to her? Did he really require that much time and energy that she needed a whole day to prepare for it? Even with all the flying—which he didn't even really even _do_ that much in her room, by the way—he didn't think he took up that much space.  
  
He didn't take up _any_ space, actually.  
  
Jack tried not to think too hard about his skinny legs and arms.  
  
“I have a number of appointments to keep, and I'm afraid that there are a good deal of them scheduled for today,” Elsa explained, sounding apologetic but firm. “It's best if you finish the rest of your duties during the day, and then return tonight when the stars are out.”  
  
 _When the stars are—?_  
  
Ugh. Jack didn't really see what the big deal was. He'd followed her around the castle for years now—shadowed her meetings, her mealtimes, her lessons... But something was different now. Something that made her want him not around.  
  
He hated it.  
  
Her laugh trickled past his ears, and Jack tried not to feel to awful about it. He was being childish—he _knew_ he was—but that didn't make it any easier to stop. Elsa laughed again, and he felt the distinct jab of her elbow in his side.  
  
She was trying to cheer him up, but he wasn't sure if he wanted it to work.  
  
“Jack, you look as if someone's just told you that they despise winter! Or _fun!_ Goodness, you look miserable. Come now, stop moping and finish this chapter with me, and then fly off to wherever it is that you must fly off to. Good heavens, you're sour this morning! Just one more day, Jack, and then I swear I'm all yours.”

. * * * .

 


	108. - screw this -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/9/14_. Part 2 of 2 for this evening, and I know I say this all the time, but legit, this is one of my favorite chapters thus far, SO.  <3
> 
> HUGE HUGE HUGE THANKS TO **ALISON** AND **SOCKS** , literally, I don't know where I'd be without your support!

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _screw this_ -  
  
. * * *.

.

.

.

.

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. * * * . **  
**

**. T E E T H .**

  
Tooth was something of a mess.  
  
But really.  
  
Jack wasn't quite sure what it was that made him decide to visit Toothiana's palace that day, but he was really glad he did. She was working herself to the bone, and then some.  
  
“Thank you so much for your help, Jack,” Toothiana was saying, sounding exhausted. Jack was still inspecting his handiwork on the newly-fixed sliding drawer in one of the Memory Box chambers on the second tier when she gushed, “That poor chamber has been sticking for at _least_ two years now, and I've just never had the time to fix it, myself.”  
  
Jack gave the newly-tightened screw on the Memory Box chamber's sliding drawer a single flick, then let it slide back into its home, easy and smooth. With a half-grin, Jack rose up, dusting his hand off on the front of his pants. “No problem,” he replied, careful about keeping his smile closed; the baby Teeth always got a little wild when he wasn't careful.  
  
“Great!” Toothiana exclaimed, looking absolutely pleased. “You can put the screwdrivers away in that box—flathead on the left, Phillips on the right.”  
  
The what on the _what?_  
  
“That's all right—I'll just put them away myself, later!” Toothiana assured him, though Jack was still trying to figure it out in his head without looking too obvious. He didn't think it was working. “Here, come enjoy some sparkling juice! You must be thirsty.”  
  
He wasn't really, but he appreciated the offer. Jack smiled as he strode into step with her jittery flight. “Thanks,” he agreed.  
  
The nice part about hanging out the palace with just the two of them was that they didn't have to waste any time with spiral staircases. High on Toothiana's favorite tower, on a grand and golden balcony, Jack sipped some delicious drink that bubbled and popped over his tongue; he was already on his fourth glass.  
  
“How is Bunny doing?” Toothiana asked curiously, alternating between short intervals of smiling at him and poring studiously over a giant map of the Pacific Islands. Lights were flashing left and right, and Toothiana seemed to be multi-tasking at least ten thousand different children at once. Jack took another tentative sip of his juice.  
  
“Good. He dipped out a little early to go check on Hiccup two days ago, and he isn't back yet.”  
  
“ _Ah_ , Hiccup... The poor Vikings and their poor dental habits! Algae is _not_ nature's toothpaste. I'll have to stop by there myself and see if there's something that can be done about those uneven incisors.”  
  
“Uh... right. Well, Bunny took off to go check on him, even though he's not supposed to reach his actual Turning Point for another week or two. I dunno when he'll be back.”  
  
“Well, you know Bunny,” Toothiana smiled fondly, trailing the tip of a finger across the wrinkles of her map. “He is always more anxious during a Turning Point.”  
  
For the first time ever, Jack did not feel the immediate urge to laugh at Bunny's expense; something had just occurred to him, in a way it never had before.  
  
 _Elsa_ would be reaching a Turning Point, too.  
  
“The Summit,” Jack whispered, with his breath caught in his chest. _Of course_. Why hadn't he realized it sooner?  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Ah—nothing. Sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
Toothiana smiled at him, curious and amused, and said, “I imagine he'll be far more on edge than usual over the next couple of weeks, until it settles down. Best not to torment him _too_ thoroughly until then, wouldn't you say?”  
  
“Right,” Jack nodded distractedly. He had nothing else to say, so he took another sip of his juice, long and drawn out, and tried to make sense of the mess in his head. The Summit. _Henrik_. Overseas. Turning Points.  
  
Anna.  
  
How did Bunny _do_ this?  
  
“Are you all right, Jack?”  
  
Jack started, completely blind to just how out of it he'd become. “Sorry, what?”  
  
Toothiana's smile faded. “You're worried about something,” she said, no question, no confusion. She could always tell when something was bothering him, and he could tell her about it, too.  
  
But this was a little much for one day.  
  
Honestly. Leaving Elsa for more than a week, and for _what?_ Because he thought he was being mature and responsible? Because he thought he was doing them all a favor by trying to rein in his own stupid, perverted shortcomings? ( _Ahhhhhh, jesus—_ that was the first time he'd actually let himself _admit_ it, like that, _ack_ —damn.) Well, great. Because now that he was back, she was too busy for him, and when she'd sent him away he'd ended up marching off to Toothiana's palace—where he was bound to feel good about himself, mostly—and all he could still think about was Elsa, because Elsa didn't need him anymore, and Elsa was already changing so much as it was but now she was going to have a _Turning Point_ soon, like Rapunzel and Hiccup and however many other countless assignments, and who the fuck knew what _that_ entailed?  
  
Maybe it was better off that he'd left for a while, after all... Apparently she had more important things to do as a Princess than to just hang out with him all day.  
  
Ugh. Why was he such an _idiot?_  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“Sorry,” he said suddenly, offering up a crooked grin as he hastily threw down another gulp of juice. He was lucky he didn't cough it back up. “Just a lot going on.”  
  
Toothiana eyed his near-empty glass. “I'll say,” she said quietly, clear with concern.  
  
Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably. He'd been meaning to ask for another glass, but maybe that wasn't the best idea.  
  
“How are the Memories doing?” he asked, suddenly.  
  
Toothiana looked surprised by his outburst, but not by the question. “We're doing all that we can,” she responded quietly, and he could see it—every trace of exhaustion as it crept back in. She looked pale, and tufts of her feathers were tangled up together. “I just hope that it's enough.”  
  
Jack bit the inside of his cheek, thoughtfully. “I have a question,” he warned, and Toothiana nodded, but Jack didn't continue right away; he had a feeling that it was either going to be a very insensitive question, or an ignorant one, but he just had to ask. “When you find the Lost Teeth again... how do you bring back the Memories? Like—how do you unbury them?”  
  
Now Toothiana _did_ look surprised. “Well,” she began thoughtfully. “I suppose... that depends on whether or not we would like to unbury them.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well... Pitch is an avid learner, and a fine strategist, but he is still experimenting. And sometimes—his work is sloppy. Sometimes, he buries the bad with the good.”  
  
“Shit,” Jack breathed, eyes widening. “Okay, well, that's—that's like _one_ silver lining out of this whole mess, isn't it?”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“So, like... how do you unbury them all so carefully then? Like, do you pick out the Memories one at a time? Do you have to switch back and forth between the good and the bad so they're not so overwhelming? Or do they all just come flooding back at once? Does the child even know that they're _back?_ ”  
  
“Some Memories will be resurfaced,” Toothiana replied, vaguely. “Others... we may choose not to return.”  
  
Jack's face scrunched, confused. “We?”  
  
Toothiana acknowledged his point. “ _I,_ ” she corrected.  
  
But Jack was still confused. “But... that's how you learn, isn't it?” he asked. “The painful ones are lessons, too.”  
  
“They are,” Toothiana agreed, an Jack got the distinct impression that she was holding something back. Something important. “And for the most part, such lessons are necessary to grow.”  
  
Jack frowned. “But?”  
  
Toothiana sighed, slow and sad. “But some Memories, Jack... some are best left forgotten.”  
  
Jack blinked, trying to let her words settle inside his head.  
  
They wouldn't.  
  
“I can't believe that,” said Jack, brow furrowing deep.  
  
“No?” Toothiana said softly, turning to watch him carefully. It was difficult to read her expression, and he wondered what she saw in his. “I suppose it would be within your right, given what you went through to retrieve yours.”  
  
“Memories are Memories,” Jack insisted, unsure as to where this sudden conviction was stemming from. “They're all important.”  
  
“That is true,” Toothiana acknowledged, pulling herself away from her map. She floated by, passing him on her way to the edge of the edge of the balcony, and when she looked out at the sky, Jack knew that she wasn't seeing the sky at all.  
  
“But?” Jack echoed, trying to be patient. He was on edge, literally and not, and at some point, his hands had begun to shake. Hastily, Jack set down the glass at her work table, and walked forward to meet Toothiana at the railing. She glanced to him briefly as he arrived.  
  
“But I have been the protector of Memories for a long time,” she told him, in that old and tired voice that he only heard sometimes, when things were especially hard. It used to worry him, and even scare him a little, maybe, but Jack had not been in the most patient of moods today, and this whole topic was more frustrating than he would have ever imagined. “I host and share the happiness,” Toothiana continued, eyes glazed upon the clouds, “but I store the pain as well.”  
  
Toothiana's words left something unsettling in his gut. Jack knew what she was referring to... Traumatic experiences. Unimaginable pain and death and loss. Those were the kinds of Memories that a mind might repress. That a heart might protect itself from.  
  
It didn't change the way he felt.  
  
“I understand if it's difficult to think this way,” Toothiana said quietly, hands clasped together at her front. “Especially when you're still so young.”  
  
 _Wow_.  
  
Okay.  
  
That stung.  
  
“Ouch,” Jack commented gruffly, and masked his face with a stern, indifferent sort of scowl. It didn't feel natural.  
  
Toothiana's eyes widened. “ _Oh!_ Oh, Jack, I didn't mean—I'm so sorry. That was horribly rude of me.”  
  
Why did he feel like he'd had this conversation before? And it wasn't just the slight to his age or the  déjà vu that was putting him this much on edge, either. Toothiana's words about the Memories hurt him in a way he didn't understand.  
  
“It's fine,” Jack scoffed, biting the inside of his cheek. His stomach was churning with ice, dark and cold and harsh against his spine. “Not like I've haven't heard it before.”  
  
“Oh, _Jack._.. you _know_ what I meant—three hundred years is but a blink of an eye in a lifetime of eternity! _Oh_ —that didn't help much, either. It's just that—each year is meaningful, each and every Memory of our own, but forever is _such_ a long time, and even I have only had a taste of it. _I_ am still quite young, you understand, in some ways—I would never imply that... I didn't _mean_ to insinuate that you are in any way _less_ than—”  
  
“Could we please change the subject?” Jack interrupted, and where the _hell_ was this anger coming from? And why wouldn't it stop? With difficulty, Jack cleared his throat and added, more gently, “I understand what you meant.”  
  
Toothiana still looked miserable. Her eyes were pleading, and her face looked crumpled— _long lashes and amethyst eyes_ —but Jack still felt like a tight cord, pulled too tight and ready to snap, and Jack had never been very good with the consolation thing, anyway.  
  
“I'm sorry,” she said one final time, and Jack knew that she meant it. “I only mean to say that Memory is a fickle creature. Not every Memory should be retained... even of us.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I bet it's a lot easier to say that when you don't have an assignment.”  
  
Ah.  
  
 _Fuck—_  
  
“Tooth... I'm sorry. That wasn't—I don't even know where that came from,” he pleaded, running a hand through his hair. His stomach was in knots.  
  
He might actually throw up.  
  
Toothiana was silent, standing tall and regal at the edge of the balcony, and _look what you've done, Jack_ , because _who is wearing the mask now?_  
  
“I am sure it is easier, Jack, to assume much when you know very little,” Toothiana said quietly, and when her eyes slanted his way, Jack didn't bother to hide. “One day, Jack, I will tell you my story.  
  
“Today is not that day.”

. * * * .

 _Screw this._  
  
He'd had an overall shitty day of shittiest days, and he was dying to see her. (It wasn't _supposed_ to go this way, of course. Elsa was supposed to be _happy_ to see him. She was supposed to be waiting by her window, thinking of him, and _agh_ , fuck, that sounded so messed up even in his head.) Dammit. He was being irrational, and sort of a jerk. ( _He still felt nauseous, had felt it all the way back from the palace, felt numb and heavy all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes_.) He _wanted_ Elsa to be happy, and busy with other people, and taking care of whatever royal duties she was responsible for. He wanted her to be outside in the sunshine, and to have other interests and other acquaintances. Right? He was being ridiculous—like she said—and from now on, he was going to do a better job of keeping that in check. In perspective.  
  
But he was still dying to see her.  
  
So he was going to go see her. And if Elsa was still busy and wanted him to go—then whatever. He'd scram. He'd be respectful of her wishes and find something else to do until the stars came out. He'd go visit Anna or mess with Pavel, for all he cared. He might even go spy on the King.  
  
It was super close to sunset, anyway.  
  
And Elsa's window was wide open.  
  
Jack flew through the open window as he normally did, with a half-bit grin and a spark in his eye, and with the addition of a silent vow to make up for that morning's lost opportunity. He expected her to be at her desk, so that's where he was stealthily headed, but he stopped short in mid-air when he realized that the desk chair was empty, and so was the vanity's. Disappointed beyond measure, Jack dropped an inch, suspended only by instinct, and wondered, again, where she could be.

In the corner of the room to the right of the door stood a decorative partition. That wasn't new. It'd been there for at least three or four years, and was so simple-looking that Jack had never bothered to take much note of it. The lamps were all lit about the room, prepared for evening ahead, and that wasn't anything new either. The partition was still made of the same long, mahogany panels, all stained dark in the setting sun, and behind it, was Elsa.  
  
Elsa.  
  
Looking at him over the sharp curve of one, bare shoulder.  
  
Elsa.  
  
Jack froze.  
  
“ _My_ —what a breeze!” said a voice, disembodied and unrecognizable. He heard it crystal clear over the sound of this pounding heart, just like he saw every fleck of light in Elsa's sharp blue eyes. The partition was much shorter than he remembered—the fine ridge of wood only traveled as high as the tips of her shoulder blades—and then the voice came again, and this time, Jack knew who it belonged to. “And so late in the season!” the Queen marveled, and Jack could see the tip of her crown bobbing up and down, directly in front of Elsa, her form mostly obscured by the partition as a trail of measuring tape stretched long and tall overhead—  
  
Elsa's eyes narrowed.  
  
Voice clear, even, and smooth like glass, Elsa casually remarked, “I think it's rather _early._ ”  
  
And _this—_

This was starting to make a lot more sense.

. * * * .


	109. - absolutely still -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/16/14_. There's a few new doodles to share, so I'll post the links in the next chapter update! :) This chapter is especially dedicated to [**aicosu**](http://aicosu.tumblr.com), who is BUSY AT WORK MAKING THE MOST DELIGHTFUL [JACK FROST](http://aicosu.tumblr.com/post/88922420630/jack-is-finished-im-sooo-much-happier-with) & [ELSA](http://aicosu.tumblr.com/post/88438668645/also-this-bullshit-this-fucking-cosplay-that) COSPLAY, so please check out their tumblr (if you don't already follow them) and wish them luck because _wow_ , look at all those fabric rectangles, goodness. ~~I'm already crying over the magnificence.~~
> 
> Is it worth it to say that this chapter is my newest favorite? I can't keep track of my favorites anymore. :P

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- absolutely still -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * .  
 **  
. M E A S U R E M E N T S .**

“What was that, dear?” the Queen looked up, confused by her daughter's peculiar tone.  
  
Elsa glanced down at her mother, who must have been busy behind the partition, stretching the measuring tape around— _oh, god_ —Elsa's waist, or her hips, or _holy_ mother of fuck, _he_ _had to_ _get out of there_.  
  
For all of Jack's life and death experiences, he'd never really had an out-of-body moment before.  
  
Until now.  
  
In one tiny corner of his brain, he saw the world as he saw it through his own eyes: perspective from a few feet off the floor, sight illuminated by oil lamps in the dying sun, vision staring straight ahead, blankly, at the familiar partition and the even more familiar girl behind it, at the bright coil of hair facing him, at the tips of her shoulders bare and exposed above the mahogany paneling, at the nape of her neck no longer hidden by a high collar—  
  
And the rest of his brain saw him as he really was: a staring, gaping, fumbling idiot.  
  
In mid-air.  
  
Frozen.  
  
He had to get out of there.  
  
And, for the record—  
  
He tried.

. * * * . 

But then an eternity of a second passed, and Elsa's chin darted up once more over her naked shoulder, and he found himself locking eyes with an expression that he could not have read even if the well-being of the entire universe depended on it.  
  
 _Go,_ his mind screamed, as his eyes took in the shape of her cheeks and mouth, the thin line of lips and upturned nose and single arched brow. _Go_ , _you fool!_  
  
Jack's hand gripped tighter to his staff, squeezing fiercely against familiar weight in his hand—and then his breath kickstarted, and so did his heart, and his legs, too, apparently—because his whole body seemed to shudder back into action all in the same terrible, debilitating moment, in which it _really_ , truly hit him—  
  
 _You don't know what she's wearing behind that wall_.  
  
She was going to kill him.  
  
He started, fingers twitching and limbs jerking, but he seemed rooted to the spot. His face felt slack with helplessness, numb and _still gaping, you useless crock_ and he'd swear on his existence that he hadn't tripped over himself in mid-air in three hundred years, but he was sure as hell doing it now.  
  
And just when he thought his heart was going to explode in his chest—either from stress, or shock, or from the invisible death beams Elsa was glaring out at him—she rolled her eyes at him, and nodded subtly toward the desk.  
  
Jack didn't understand.  
  
She leveled him with a look, and— _you know,_ it was funny how such familiar glares could look so different when the person directing them _wasn't wearing a dress_ and— _oh, god_ —his eyes must have been as wide as saucers, and as dumb as a doe's, because Elsa jerked her head to the side, much more forcefully this time, and nodded pointedly at the desk on the far side of the room. _Sit_ , she mouthed, when her sharp, clear eyes had found his, and Jack woke up.  
  
Jack's body gave a jolt— _left? no, right??_ —and after an agonizing moment of disoriented, awkward shuffling, Jack darted toward the desk across the room. His staff might have slammed into the drawers.  
  
“My _goodness_ , what is all that commotion?” asked the Queen from behind.  
  
“Just a mouse, mother,” he heard Elsa dismissively reply, and oh _god_ , it hurt just to _hear_ her voice. “They've grown rather large over the winter months.”  
  
“My goodness. Well, we'll have to see about what Pavel might able to do for us about that.”  
  
Jack couldn't even be bothered with the chair. He curled himself into a veritable ball on the highest corner of its backrest, the balls of his feet digging into the wood and fabric with alarming hyperawareness, and held tight to his staff at his shoulder so it wouldn't get away from him again. There was an open book resting atop her workspace, but Jack wouldn't have been able to read the title even if he'd tried. He was too focused on resisting the urge to bounce, or jitter, or implode. He was like a live wire, a thrumming, tightly-coiled ball of nervous energy, and one wrong move— _one sudden movement_ —seemed like all it'd take to make him fly apart in ten thousand impossible directions.  
  
It was not by any means easy for a creature like Jack Frost to remain absolutely still.

.

.

.

.

.

.  
  
(And, if truth be told,  
not _all_ of him   
was.)  
  
.

.

.

  
At the sinking realization of what was currently on the rise, Jack's muffled groan was further muffled by the return of Elsa's calm and casual voice, spoken with no indication whatsoever that there was an invisible boy across the room who'd just very well had his mind split in half.  
  
“Are you sure the seamstress won't be displeased that she isn't to have a live body for her next commission?” came Elsa's voice, as Jack tried very hard not to fall off the chair.  
  
“Madam Vel has always made exceptional work,” the Queen answered pragmatically. “I'm sure we can only expect the highest quality and professionalism on all fronts.”  
  
There was a pause, in which Jack mostly heard the thundering of his heart in his ears, and felt the same indescribable, inescapable, ineffable heat flood through his limbs as before; his face, however, which was pointed determinedly at the pages on the desk, seemed to be the least of his concerns...

  
“I imagine you still have another inch or two to grow,” said the Queen quietly, and Jack had _no_ idea if anything had been said before that. His ears were straining to hear—anything to take his mind off of the rest of what his body was doing. Jack took a deep breath, letting the coolness in the air seep deep into his lungs. It made him feel more solid, more grounded, a cold shock to the system, and— _the tiniest bit_ —Jack began to feel himself relax. The Queen's movements could be faintly heard over the open breeze outside, shifting and shuffling about, and she wistfully added, “Though hopefully not for at least another year.”

And then Elsa's voice, quiet and distant, a cold shock far more effective than any pull of air, “You know I could have taken these myself, Mother.”  
  
Jack stilled, and—after a moment—he realized from the distant sounds behind him that the Queen had done the same.  
  
A new sort of tension in the room became very clear to him.  
  
He resisted the urge to turn around and watch their expressions; after this many years, Jack knew well enough by now that seeing their may not have made such a difference, anyway.  
  
“Yes,” said the Queen; her voice was even, but not without its sadness. “You could have,” she acknowledged. “But then... these things never turn out quite the same, do they?”  
  
Elsa said nothing.  
  
“There,” said the Queen, with soft finality. “Would you like assistance with—?”  
  
“No, thank you,” came Elsa's clear and polite voice. Jack's heart picked up once more at the sound of shuffling fabrics, of obvious movement behind him. (Breath in. Breath out. Cold.) “It is already evening, and I won't be putting it back on.”

(Cold, cold, _cold._ )

.

.

.

.

(And Jack vaguely wondered to himself  
how he could have ever thought  
that a _blush_  
might be   
embarrassing.)

Another pause.  
  
“Very well... I will see you tomorrow at supper, darling.”  
  
There must have been a silent gesture, one that Jack Frost could neither see nor sense—maybe a curtsy, or something—and then the fabric of the Queen's heavy skirts sifted about through his ears, as well as the earth-shattering click of the door closing shut.  
  
“You can stop pretending to read that book now, Jack.”  
  
He was cringing even before she finished _you_.  
  
Slowly, Jack Frost twisted his chin over his shoulder—then stopped, paralyzed by fear. He could almost hear the sigh in her voice when she called, “You can turn around.”  
  
She was in a familiar dark blue robe, hair coiled neatly at her nape, and her feet were graced with little black flats. None of this was new.  
  
The distinct lack of her familiar day dress beneath the robe, however, _was_.  
  
Instead, past the hem of robe at her ankles, Jack could only see the tiniest edge of gauzy white fabric, thin and flimsy and _thin_. The blue sleeves were long, and the white gloves were gone, the robe wrapped tightly around her and cinched at the waist, arms crossed tightly over her front. The very shape of her seemed different without all her layers, without the thick velvet and embroidered patterns, without the high collars and—  
  
There was still no collar.  
  
In fact, there seemed to be very little to which a collar could _attach_.  
  
“Good evening, Jack.”

( _Just kidding._  
  
A blush was still just as   
wildly embarrassing as it was  
 _before_.)  


“So,” Jack nodded jerkily, out of nowhere, to— _well_ —to _Elsa_ , in general, and awkwardly bit out, “New dress order?”  
  
Her eyes were very sharp, and calculating—and her face was blank, but anything but passive. She could have been waiting for an apology, or deciding upon the most painful means of execution. She could have been carefully choosing her words for his banishment, or determining the most hurtful, cutting words to give him the most gloriously painful guilt trip of all time. Elsa released a careful sigh; she seemed very unsurprised.  
  
Jack's stomach flipped.  
  
“'Tis the season,” she answered cautiously, gaze intent on his every twitch and shift and breath. Her eyes were like a hawk's.  
  
“Ah,” he responded, then winced when it cracked. What was he—fifteen? _Pull it together, Frost!_ He should apologize. He should have apologized ten minutes ago, and yet here he was, gawking about, awkward as hell and _shit_ , Frost, _where's your snappy confidence now?_  
  
“You know,” Elsa said suddenly, just about near startling Jack out of his skin. She took a step forward—Jack took a step back. She glanced upwards at him, in surprise—and _shit_ , he didn't even remember his legs making the decision to do that, _why_ did he _do_ that?—and then something flickered across her face, something dangerous-looking and all-too-familiar but not, and Jack felt so close to passing out from lightheadedness that it wasn't even funny.  
  
Elsa was at least partly amused.  
  
She was very good at hiding it, and the only reason he even knew it was there at all was through many years of careful observation and assessment, but for all of his intricate knowledge of Elsa's demeanor and habits and idiosyncrasies, he was in now way prepared for— _  
  
_“You know,” she repeated, nonchalantly, and this time when she took a step forward, Jack stayed rooted to the spot. The tiniest trace of an upwards curve slipped onto one corner of her lips as she stepped forward slowly, closing the distance. She stopped when she was only three feet away, and Jack tried his very hardest to remain _still_ , but then her eyes dropped down to his chest and the rest of his thoughts turned into an eloquent train of gibberish.  
  
“I've never asked you this before,” she began with a curious sort of tone, shifting one final half-step forward, and Jack's heart was beating so loud she must have heard it, must have been taking vengeful delight in the thought of sinking her teeth into it—“But now I can't help but wonder... what is the name of that garment you wear?”  
  
 _Wh—wha—?_  
  
“What?” Jack blurted, mostly on some robotic instinct. His brain was still not quite following when he glanced forcefully down at his chest, and then yanked his gaze back up, only to find it once again trapped in hers. “My... hoodie?”  
  
“Your... hood- _y?_ ”  
  
“Uhh... well, I mean—we call them sweatshirts, too. Most people call them that. Actually. _I just_ —I call it a hoodie.”  
  
God, what was _wrong_ with him?  
  
“You made it,” she declared.  
  
 _Yes,_ Jack was going to say, then looked up at her. Caught by a fit of unbidden curiosity, Jack managed a completely normal, “How can you tell?”  
  
Elsa reached out a hand and, before he knew what she was doing, took hold of a pinch of fabric at his collar. The side of her hand rested against his collarbone as she pulled the root of the hood away from his neck. The skin felt strangely exposed.  
  
 _Irony_ , said a voice in Jack's head, panicked and choking.  
  
“The stitches are slightly crooked, here.” Her fingers tapped very gently at the ridge of fabric at the base of a chord in his neck, dangerously close to his pulse. “Like someone was very determined, and grew distracted...”  
  
 _Tap, tap, tap._  
  
Elsa looked up at him, face still so alarmingly blank, and realigned the fabric into place, but didn't let go. “I promise it's hardly noticeable,” she said quietly, like it were the start of a joke... but her gaze didn't match her tone. Too intense. “Very minor,” she assured him, “So don't worry.”  
  
“I wasn't worried,” Jack said automatically.  
  
Elsa's eyes bored into his.  
  
Jack forced himself not to swallow.  
  
“I'm sorry I was early,” was what he blurted, heart pounding in his chest.

( _She could probably feel it._ )  
  


A moment passed, and then her hand slipped away. _This is it_ , he thought. The rampage—the disappointed, indignant rage he knew he deserved.  
  
“It's all right,” Elsa answered, sliding her arms to fold across her chest. She looked thoughtfully to the frost at his throat, then dragged her eyes upwards toward his. “Something tells me that it won't happen again.”  
  
Her eyebrows lifted.  
  
Jack caught on, half a second later.  
  
“No,” he assured her, clearing his throat. “No. I won't. I mean—it won't. Happen again.”  
  
Elsa looked him over carefully, paying close attention to his eyes. She seemed to reach some sort of decision in her head, silent and final, and when she spoke next, he could almost see the glimmer of vengeful glee in her eyes as she added, “And from now on, you'll listen to my scheduling requests. You'll recognize that there is a reason for why I have asked you to wait.”  
  
“Yeah. Yes. _Uh_ —yes _._ ”  
  
She held back for a moment, taking in the stiff ridge of his spine (and the erratic twitching of _something_ on his face) with undivided attention— _really soaking it up, here, aren't you?_ came a dry, resigned sort of voice—and Jack would swear upon a thousand lifetimes that Elsa was almost smirking when she dipped her chin meaningfully and said, “And from now on, Jack Frost, you will knock.”  
  
Holy _fuck_ , would he ever.  
  
He was still caught off guard by the sound of Elsa's laughter.  
  
“Come on,” she whispered, shoving his shoulder with a playful hand. Jack staggered backwards slightly, completely unprepared. “Let's play checkers, or something. It's been far too boring around here without you.”  
  
“All—all right.”  
  
He almost followed her, when she turned easily on her heel and made like she was headed for the chess set on the table, but then she half-turned back to call over her shoulder, and stopped him once more in his tracks.  
  
“Ah, but first—I must slip into my nightgown. Go ahead and set up the board, or take a look at that book on the desk, if you like, like you were doing before.”  
  
He didn't need to be told twice.  
  
Jack's eyes stared blankly at the book to the sounds of heavy fabric pooling on the floor. He could hear every crackle of the flickering candle flames, every tick of the clock, every minute shift and movement from behind the partition, every soft breath and sigh and slip of fabric.  
  
His eyes were glued to the book before him, but he hardly saw a word on the page.

. * * * .


	110. - through with -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/18/14_. In case you haven't seen them yet, **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** has done it again! Check out [these beautiful doodles](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/88597736617/yes-i-have-been-cruelly-withholding-jelsa-at-the). (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Thanks again!!

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- through with -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * .  
 **  
. W E A K N E S S E S .**

The rest of that evening was sort of a blur.  
  
Jack resisted a game of Slapjack, without any proper excuse, and spent most of the night huddled close the wall of the window seat, listening to Elsa's stories. It wasn't very comfortable, tucking his heels close to his hips and trying not to move, but Jack figured that he'd probably already used the full extent of his welcome when he'd arrived.  
  
But his fear of doing something particularly stupid dissipated a few hours later, when Elsa pulled out the remnants of the Festival.  
  
She'd made him another flower crown.  
  
( _“It's kind of silly, don't you think?”_ Elsa had smiled wanly, turning it carefully in her fingers. Jack couldn't take his eyes off it. _“I was reminded of the first one I'd made you, when I was younger.”_ )  
  
A tight, sickening feeling had wormed into his gut. ( _Elsa spent that day alone. She made something for you, and you weren't there to receive it._ ) And why? For not having his head on straight? Again?  
  
This was the price he paid.  
 _  
(Which was worse? _ he wondered; to ruin these perfect moments with his stupid, unforgivable weaknesses? To _stay_ , even though he was a scoundrel?)

  
( _To give Elsa anything_  
 _less_  
 _than what she_  
 _deserved?_ )

  
Or to do as he _had,_ to try to spare Elsa from his failings—and then miss these moments entirely?  
  
He couldn't keep running away.

.

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( _What_ else _  
have you_  
  
 _missed?_ )

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.

  
( _“Elsa,”_ he'd started, sometime later, when the moon showed the first trail of its ascent. After hours spent determinedly not looking at her, or only at her right ear, to focus, Jack was startled to realize—“ _You look exhausted.”_ )

Dark circles beneath her eyes. A limpness to her hair, and a certain paleness that spoke of dizziness and fatigue. Before Jack could think twice about it, his hand shot out toward her jaw, thumb laid gently upon her cheek. Surprised, she allowed him to tilt her face towards him, so he could better see just how deep her tiredness ran.  
  
( _“I've been having trouble sleeping_ ,” she admitted quietly, stunned.  
  
Unease spiked harshly in Jack's chest. _“Still?”_ )  
  
He never did get an answer, after that.  
  
Elsa had turned her head away, and Jack let her rest her back against the wall, placing her temple against the cold glass of the window. Her eyes fluttered closed soon after, and sometime later, Elsa found eventually found sleep.  
  
Not a single speck of black sand appeared.

. * * * .

But   
Jack Frost   
was through with   
waiting.

. * * * .

 


	111. - seven hells -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/18/14_. Last one for today!

 

 . * * * .  
  
 _\- seven hells -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * .  
 **  
. A S S I G N M E N T S .  
  
**

His plans to speak more about this with Bunnymund—about a possible attack against Pitch—were hopelessly derailed.  
  
 _“What_ in the _seven hells_ did you say to her?!”  
  
The better part of the afternoon was spent dodging Bunny's scolding kicks, and flinging back a stream of snarky remarks and genuine apologies in equal measure. ( _Yes, I was stupid! No, I haven't found a way to make it up to her yet! Yes, I_ am _the dumbest wanker this side of Punxsutawney!_ )  
  
Bunny didn't care about the explanation, or Jack's side of the story. “Just make sure you _fix_ it,” he ground out, settling himself down on the grass with a ferocious huff. “One of these days, you're gonna say something you _really_ can't take back, and then where'll you be?”  
  
The hard part was—  
  
Jack wasn't sure if he already had.  
  
Toothiana had treated him with the same warm kindness and respect at that morning's meeting as she usually did, and to Jack it'd seemed like she was willing to let this latest mistake of his flow under the bridge.  
  
But Bunny had stepped out of his portal, taken one look at the two of them, and then dragged him back to the Warren by the ear as soon as the meeting was over.  
  
“I don't care what kind of filter you do or don't have, boy, but if you don't figure out how to get your shit together _soon_ , you're gonna end up havin' to do it the _hard_ way.”  
  
“All right!” Jack finally snapped, angry mostly because Bunny was completely right. “I _know._ Okay? I'm working on it.”  
  
“Well, work _harder_.”  
  
Yeah.  
  
Like Jack hadn't heard _that_ one before.

. * * * .

  
Bunny didn't want to talk about Pitch though, and Jack sort of understood why.  
  
“The only reason I'm here is because I ain't doin' much by just hovering around Berk,” he sighed out, twitchy and jerky with nerves. He'd been sharpening some tools for some time, and Jack was making sure to keep a relatively safe distance—or what he _hoped_ was a safe distance, anyway—when Bunny sighed deep and set down his tools in the grass. Pensively, Bunny watched the water in the creek and said, “Hiccup is being tested tomorrow.”  
  
Jack didn't really know what that meant, but Bunny just looked so tired, and worried, and Jack couldn't help wanting to ask, _Bunny... how do you_ do _this?_  
  
“When are you going back?” he asked, instead.  
  
Bunny absently toyed with the tools in his hands, eyes unseeing on the water. “First thing in the morning,” he answered vaguely, then, “I won't be back for a long time. I can feel it.”  
  
Something lurched in Jack's stomach.  
  
“Feel it?” he echoed, as the first creepings of anxiety crawled their way into his lungs. “What do you mean?” _Is that a Guardian thing?_  
  
 _Can I feel it, too?_  
  
“Hiccup's got a lot stacked against him,” Bunny explained, in a voice that wasn't really Bunny's anymore. He sounded a lot wiser, and more serious, and it—it sort of scared Jack, in way.   
  
It felt more real.  
  
“The rest of the village hasn't a clue as to what Hiccup has been doing, but Astrid has her suspicions... She couldn't know the truth, of course. That a Viking is training dragons.”  
  
“He's... he's _what?_ ”  
  
For the first time since his big, furry foot had planted itself in Jack's stomach an hour or so before, Bunny looked over at him. It was silent for a moment, in which Jack—already high-strung on uncertain anxiety—worried that he'd actually said something else entirely, and then Bunny broke out into loud, raucous laughter.  
  
“Dude. It wasn't even that funny.”  
  
“I disagree, mate,” Bunny said, wiping away a tear.  
  
“How am I supposed to know what _is_ or isn't normal in other worlds? I'm still new to this stuff!”  
  
“Remind me to take you there someday, when all this shite simmers down,” Bunny's laughter gradually trickled off, only to start back up again in small spurts.  
  
Okay. Now this is just getting annoying.  
  
“I thought you told me that not all the special assignments had stuff related to magic?”  
  
“They _don't_ ; Hiccup doesn't have a magical bone in his body—'cept maybe for that big brain of his. The kid works metal like magic, that's for sure.” Bunny paused, as if only considering this for the first time. “Yeah... Hiccup's a sort of magician in his own right, after all, I guess.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, but that doesn't really answer my _question_.”  
  
“Which is what?”  
  
Shit. What _was_ his question? “Like—how many other assignments have magical powers?” _Like Elsa? Or Rapunzel?_  
  
“Hm. Well... Not as many as there used to be, honestly,” Bunny acknowledged thoughtfully. “I think the last time we had any sort of magical incident was one of Sandy's. Merida, the firecracker.” And then Bunny cracked up again, “She accidentally turned her mother into a bear.”  
  
“She _what?_ ”  
  
“Oh, don't go giving me that look now—you were fine with dragons, but as soon as a witch helps turn a Queen into a bear, you're intrigued?”  
  
“She— _how_ ?”  
  
“Some fruit pie-tart, or something. I can't remember the details. I tell ya, though... Sandy gets the _strangest_ assignments.”  
  
Big talk for a Guardian who was guarding a dragon-rider name _Hiccup_.  
  
But.  
  
“ _Dude,_ ” Jack gaped. “There's—there's no fucking _way_ a Queen got turned into a bear by eating a pie. Or tart, or whatever.”  
  
“Because that's any more unrealistic than a Princess mysteriously being born with ice powers?” Bunny slanted.  
  
Jack tried not to bristle too visibly at the comparison.  
  
“Look,” Jack bit out, trying to keep his head. “I just need a minute to process this, _okay_ ? We didn't use to believe in all this magical stuff in my village!” he defended.  
  
“Frost, you've been a winter sprite for more than _three hundred years_ and you're still using your old life as a point of magical _reference?_ ”   
  
“Uh, in case you're forgetting, we called innocent girls _witches_ and made up stories about them to keep little kids from running of into woods. Also—and you're gonna have to trust me on this, history buff that I am— _people burned them at the stake_ , all right? There wasn't—it wasn't like this _thing_ that we... that we celebrated. You know?”  
  
 _Ugh_.  
  
 _Way to take the Fun right out of that conversation, Frost._

( _Sorcery,_ a voice whispered,  
but Jack buried it down.  
  
 _Elsa._ )

  
“I'm not... I'm not sure I ever actually thought you existed,” Jack admitted quietly, unsure of where this was coming from. Unsure as to why he was saying it, any of it, out loud. “I mean, I only ever really knew about North, and I... only kept up the... the ruse for my sister, mostly.”  
  
Jack didn't know what he was expecting. For Bunny to get angry? Offended?  
  
All Bunny did was pick up his tools again and start sharpening them, like nothing had even happened.  
  
“You may not have Believed in the Guardians, Jack Frost,” he said, scraping away at the sharp point of a dandelion picker, and muttered, “But we sure as hell knew about you.”  
  
Jack's eyes widened. “You... you did?”  
  
Bunny sent him a flat look, like, _really_?  
 _  
Really, Frost?_  
  
“ _Hey_ , I don't know! I've never considered these things before!” Jack defended.  
  
“Well, consider this: North once lost an entire army of toy soldiers to a couple of careless yetis because he was too busy visiting your village in the middle of busy season. He _still_ hasn't forgotten about it.”  
  
“Wait,” Jack breathed, chest feeling excitedly tight. “North _knew_ me when I was human?”  
  
“Kid... You've held the record for a _lot_ longer than you've probably realized.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Jack asked, not because he had any particular question, but simply as a way of reminding himself to _breathe_.  
  
“Oh, please. You were such a little hell-raiser, he never shut up about you.”  
  
Jack laughed, sharp and bright. “So, what?” he grinned, unable to to contain it any longer. “I was on the Naughty List for all those years, even then?”  
  
Bunny didn't answer right away, and he didn't offer up the answer Jack expected. Smiling just a little, almost warmly, Bunny quickly shook his head—like he was ridding himself of the sappy feeling that was permeating the air—and muttered out a gruff, “Nah... You always did something to change his mind at the very last moment, you bloody sneak.”  
  
Jack blinked his eyes, thinking back. Something wasn't making sense. Sure, he got a few presents like the rest of his friends did—small treats and stuff, even after the rest of the world would have considered him too old for the traditions of Christmas— _his mother would have never stopped, would have gifted him with something every year until the day she died_ —but none of the presents, no matter how thoughtful, could compare to what Jack found in his stocking each Christmas morning, during the coldest stretch of winter.   
  
“But... I still got all that coal,” Jack remembered, confused.  
  
Bunny's eyes softened, just slightly.  
  
“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “You did.”

.

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_Did you—_   
  
_Did you recognize me when I...?_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

  
( _You should be angry,_  
a voice told him.   
  
T _hey knew you all this time,_  
 _but as soon as you died—they left you out in the cold._  
  
 _They don't actually care about you_ , it whispered.   
  
_They just needed a Guardian_.)

.

.

.

.

.

.

Maybe it _should_ have made him angry; the voice could have been right.  
  
But for some reason,  
Jack only laughed.  
  
It was one of the brightest parts of his day.

  
. * * * .

 


	112. - about dessert -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/20/14_. We reached 700 kudos! Yaaaaaaay! ~~I think I forgot to mention 600 somewhere along the way, oops.~~ This was a nice morning surprise. :)
> 
> I've got a really busy couple of months ahead of me, so update schedules will be anybody's guess! I've been drabbling quite a few jelsa one-shots, however, so if college AUs and pirate AUs and Titantic AUs are your thing, keep your eyes peeled. :P (I've already posted the college AU [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1803598).) ~~Note: these one-shots are not to be taken too seriously, omg, they're just to keep me entertained in between WIP updates. :P :P~~
> 
> I also really love this chapter GO FIGURE.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- about dessert -_  
  
. * * * .

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

. * * * . _  
_**  
. L I G H T S .**

  
The rest of May passed quickly, and quietly.  
  
Jack Frost learned a lot that month.  
  
Jack learned that life could be boring and still make him happy; he learned that he _could_ content himself to sit in Elsa's room all day, or the loft, or the gardens, and that he _could_ learn to be okay with that, to not pressure her to go any farther past the castle's gates. He learned that a letter from Henrik could still be just as annoying in the morning as it was in the afternoon, no matter how brief it was, and especially if it was signed off with _looking forward to seeing you soon._ Jack learned that he didn't take very well to sideburns on _anybody_ these days, and that—every once in a while, on her increasingly rare, nostalgic days—Anna would climb out onto the rooftops with his book in her hands. Jack learned that although Anna had _never_ really been prone to neat freak tendencies, it seemed that she was now bent on cleaning her room as little as possible, if ever. He learned that Elsa still needed him, and wanted him around.  
  
That he could remember the exact shape and shadows of Elsa's left collarbone.  
  
He was _reminded_ that Elsa was a bit more perceptive than he probably would have liked.  
  
“So... I haven't heard much about Toothiana, lately,” Elsa said one day, seemingly innocent. They were at the window, lounging through a lazy morning. “How is she doing?”  
  
Jack didn't bother to look up from the book he was reading. It was actually pretty good. “Fine,” he said.

“That's all? Wasn't she under a lot of stress?”  
  
Toothiana was always under a lot of stress. “Yeah, but she's making the best of it.”  
  
“Hm... I'm glad to hear it. I'm sure it's been very helpful for her, having you there as a support,” Elsa commented, and Jack dragged his eyes away from the page to look up at her from under his brow, curiously. She was working on some new stitches, watching her hands work carefully, though Jack knew that she probably could have done it perfectly with her eyes closed. “I suppose it's a rather nice way of returning the favor for all of the times she's helped you over the years.”  
  
Okay.  
  
Now he was starting to feel guilty.  
  
“What's your sudden interest in Tooth?” Jack asked suspiciously.  
  
“Sudden?” Elsa blinked, pausing. “I have loved Toothiana for years. I am merely curious,” she defended.  
  
 _Ugh_.  
  
“Ugh... Sorry,” Jack muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “You're right.”  
  
“Indeed,” Elsa thinly replied, resuming her perfect embroidery. Jack watched the needle and thread for a few minutes, distractedly, when Elsa casually slipped in, “Not to mention the fact that she is clearly interested in you.”  
  
Jack sputtered so badly, he nearly fell off the seat.  
  
“Oh, come now, Jack—surely you're not unaware?”  
  
“I— _how—_ how would _you_ know?”  
  
“It's not hard to imagine,” Elsa remarked, needle never faltering. “You'd be a very easy person to like.”  
  
What.  
  
There were. There were so many things he didn't understand about that statement. _What does—?_ How was he supposed to respond to that? (So many _places_ to—to _start—_ to question, to—)  
  
“I _would_ be?” Jack demanded, affronted.  
  
“Oh, fine,” Elsa rolled her eyes, exasperated and amused. She slid the thread tight through the fabric and conceded, “You _are_.”  
 _  
_One half of Jack's brain recognized that she was simply humoring him. That she was only playing along.  
  
The other half didn't quite know what to do.

( _I am?_ )

Jack wondered, briefly, _Would you_ — _could_ you— _?_  
  
Then snapped himself out of it.  
  
“Well—I don't know about that,” he said stiffly, turning back to his book. Elsa's scoff wasn't wholly unexpected, but that didn't make it any easier to hear.  
  
“Poppycock,” Elsa smiled, and she was _enjoying_ this—him, being on edge. And the hits just kept coming. Barely a pause had passed when she said, “You know just as well as I do that she's favored you from the beginning.”  
  
 _Okay,_ now this was starting to get just plain embarrassing. “Guardians don't have favorites,” he insisted.  
  
But all he got in return was a _look_ , dry and unconvinced.  
  
“ _Okay_ , fine, but—it's not as exciting as you think,” Jack warned her, not yet content to close his book; it was the only plausible escape route he had. “Like—we're too busy, the both of us, and there's a whole bunch of shit going on with the teeth, and it's not like we have the _time_ to really discuss any—”  
  
“Jack,” Elsa stopped him, laughing as she pressed a palm flat to his shin. He felt it all the way into the marrow of his bones, through his toes and into his hip. He was trying not to bolt when Elsa smiled and said, “I'm not talking about your _discussions_ with Tooth _._ ”  
  
Jack's eyes widened.  
  
“Oh... _Oh!_ Good _heavens,_ Jack!” Elsa exclaimed, shoving his leg aside. His knee hit the wall, but his heart was too busy pounding to notice. Elsa looked halfway between flustered and amused, and Jack was _still_ _not_ _processing_ when her eyes took on a scolding gleam and she said, “Not like _that_ , for goodness' sake! _Honestly._ ”  
  
“ _Wha_ -at! ” Jack cried indignantly, as the book toppled to the floor. No _way_ was she pinning this on him. “You're the one who said it!”  
  
“Yes, and _you're_ the one who interpreted it!”  
  
“Well, how _else_ was I supposed to interpret it?”  
  
“Oh, enough,” Elsa said decisively, though Jack was still itching to fight. His skin prickled and his chest felt tight, but he liked the feel of it, the thrill of the argument. He didn't want to stop.  
  
But Elsa leaned back against the wall, and resumed her calm and steady work.  
  
“My _point,_ Jack,” Elsa said, while adrenaline still simmered in his veins, “was that I am _curious_ about your feelings on the matter... and that I wanted to ask you if you felt comfortable enough to share.” Jack blinked, while Elsa shrugged. “Though, in a way, I suppose you already have.”  
  
Um.

( _Shit._ )  


Elsa laughed at his expression, or whatever horror she must have seen there, and said, “You are obviously free to decline further comment, of course.”  
  
Jack could hardly believe his ears.  
  
“Did you just... did you just trick me into giving you information? About _Tooth?_ ”  
  
“I merely asked you a question, Jack,” she evenly replied. “ _You_ chose how to answer.”  
  
“That's a bloody two-faced lie, if I ever heard one.”  
  
Elsa laughed, which was—for once— _not_ the desired effect. “Oh, dear. You sound suspiciously like Bunny.”  
  
Good. He needed to channel some Pooka no-nonsense right now. “You sound like a politician!”  
  
Elsa paused, brow arching high. “I _am_ a politician, Jack.”  
  
Holy shit.  
  
“Goddammit, you _did_ trick me,” Jack whispered, floored with annoyance and... awe. “That's... that's supposed _my_ job.”  
  
“Hm. Perhaps you are not as skilled as you thought you were.”  
  
“ _All_ right,” Jack grumbled shortly, though the good nature of the ribbing was already smoothing his ruffled feathers. He punched the pillows behind him a few times, trying to fluff them up a bit. “That's enough outta you.”  
  
“Perhaps the student has outskilled the Master?”  
  
Jack grinned, still half-turned with a fluffing fist mid-strike. “So you admit it, then—that I am the Master?”  
  
Elsa's dry exasperation was just as satisfying as ever.  
  
“Only if you admit that I have exceeded you.”  
  
Or not.  
  
Jack should have known better than to hope that a stray pillow to her shoulder might catch Elsa off-guard.  
  
His sly attempt at recognition ended with him on his black on the floor rug, clutching a pillow at his stomach, still trying to recover from the unexpected blow.  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” he called up onto the window seat, winded and cracking.  
  
His perfect view of the ceiling was interrupted by the _far-too-pleased-with-herself_ face of a grinning Elsa, cheeky and smug and where the _hell_ had that sweet little Princess gone?

  
. * * * .

“Honestly, though. You shouldn't answer if you'd rather not, but... I _am_ curious. Do you return her feelings?”  
  
A groan escaped him.  
  
“Come on, Elsa,” Jack draped an arm over his eyes. He never did quite make it back up onto the window seat, even an hour later. “I don't know what to say to this.”  
  
“You don't have to say anything,” she reminded him.  
  
He _knew_ that. He didn't _want_ to say anything.  
  
But.  
  
Then again.  
  
Jack peeked toward the desk out of the corner of his eye, from under his sleeve.  
  
At the letter from Henrik he'd spied earlier, resting in its envelop, at the edge.  
  
“Do you remember when I asked you how you could tell if a match was compatible?” Jack asked, still hiding beneath his arm.  
  
“I do.”  
  
Jack paused, slowly shifting his sleeve from over his eyes. The words Jack had been about to say died on his tongue.  
  
“I guess you already knew I was talking about Tooth,” Jack noted quietly, letting his hand slide down to rest flat over his chest. “Huh.”  
  
Jack blinked, and then Elsa was beside him on the floor, easing over to sit next to where he laid. She looked down at him carefully, leaning her shoulder over his stomach so she could see his face. She looked apologetic. Nervous.  
  
“Does that alarm you?” she asked quietly.  
  
The idea was almost laughable, at first glance, but then Jack found himself seriously considering it.  
  
Elsa had always been far more perceptive than most.  
  
“No,” he laughed thoughtfully, training his eyes toward the ceiling. “No... It definitely doesn't surprise me.”  
  
They stayed in companionable silence for a few minutes then, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Jack had at some point threaded his fingers together over his stomach, hitched one ankle over the other, and Elsa looked similarly comfortable, resting her cheek on her shoulder as she slanted herself his direction, staring at a spot of rug near his left ear. He didn't realize that he'd been staring until she turned her eyes toward his.  
  
“Jack, I would like to ask a favor of you,” she announced, not a drop of hesitation. Jack was still trying to gather his wits about him.  
  
“Is it about stealing more lemon bars from the kitchens?” he wondered, his chest welling so forcefully with hope that it rushed forwards, that he sat up so quickly that he nearly knocked his forehead into Elsa's chin. Their collision was avoided, just in time for Jack to grin and offer, “Because you know I can do that.”  
  
Elsa smiled, then took a moment—as if she were seriously considering it, _good—_ and then decreed, “Maybe later.”  
 _  
Frostbite._  
  
“I was actually thinking of something else.”  
  
“If it's not about dessert, then I don't care.”  
  
“Jack.”  
  
“ _Elsa_.”  
  
“This year, when I am at the Summit, I want you to make an effort to spend more time with Tooth.”  
  
The sparks of Fun in Jack's veins skidded to a halt, and froze. The heat in his gut cooled.  
  
“What?” he asked, dazedly.  
  
Elsa sat back, rearranged the heavy folds of her skirts. Jack watched, confused, as Elsa smoothed out a perfectly unwrinkled stretch of velvet.  
  
“I think it would be kind of you to see what more can be done to help,” Elsa explained, only looking at the fabric for but a moment more, turning her clear eyes on Jack and, “It would be wise for you to think more consciously about what can be done to show your gratitude for all the support she's given you... And your company will be very much appreciated at the Palace. Do you agree?”  
  
 _I..._ What was the first thing she said again?  
  
“Well—yeah, I guess,” Jack answered absently, feeling rather like a steamroller had just come barreling over him. Jack stared at the floor, wondering how the hell he was going to put his thoughts into words. “But I mean... I mean you're _right,_ but... I don't. I don't really know what... So, wait. What are you asking me to do?” Jack turned toward her suddenly, tucking a foot close to his hip and folding a knee high to his shoulder, trying to keep his hand from accidentally flying into her face. “Are you, like—subtly trying to tell me to mack on Tooth?”  
  
“To _what?_ ”  
  
Oh, god.  
  
Abort. _Abort._  
  
“Are you trying to tell me to spend more time with Toothiana so that I... can—” _Flirt with her? Court her?_ “—like, get to _know_ her better? Or something?”  
  
Elsa was starting to look just as lost and dazed as he did. Like. _Just_ as confused as he did.  
  
 _Motherfucker—_ he was just making it worse.  
  
“Is that what _you'd_ like to do?” she asked curiously.  
  
What the _hell.  
  
_ “I don't know!” Jack exclaimed, sounding flustered and panicked. Embarrassingly so. “I wasn't thinking about any of this until you snuck it into the conversation!”  
  
“Well, now you _are_ thinking about it. Is that what you'd like to do?” she repeated, earnest in her curiosity, polite in her gentle sincerity. “Get to know her better?”  
  
Jack felt horribly, horribly trapped.  
  
“I don't _know_ what I'd like to do,” Jack tried to tell her. “That's what I said before, remember? I don't _know_.”  
  
“Well... Maybe,” Elsa began cautiously, “You'd like to figure it out.”  
  
Jack's mouth opened, then closed. There was a scowl on his face, and it didn't go away—even after he scratched at his eyebrow, and shook his head, and scoffed a laugh.  
  
 _Yeah_ , Jack thought. _Maybe.  
  
_ “Goddammit,” he muttered, pouting at the floor.  
  
Elsa laughed beside him, sudden and bright, and then he was being pushed onto his back on the rug. He didn't even have the heart to slip his hands out beside him, to catch his fall, and his skull lowered down to the floor in a slow-moving arc of defeat. His fingers splayed open beside him.  
  
“Jack, you are such a drama queen,” Elsa accused, prodding him in the shoulder. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of flinching. Not even a little bit. Ticklish spot, or no. Nope.  
  
“Drama Queen,” Jack echoed dully, hamming it up. “King of Fools... I rule them all.”  
  
An _ouch_ escaped him as another blow fell upon his shoulder—still playful, but definitely more than just the poke of a single finger—Elsa had strong hands, _okay—_ and just as he was about to complain, a body flopped onto the rug beside him, and the fleeting pain of a strike was replaced by the warmth of another shoulder pressed against his.  
  
“I think it would be good to at least consider it,” Elsa continued, as if she hadn't just hit him. More than once. As if they'd never gotten off-track, and they'd been talking about his apparent love life all along. “Honestly, Jack... We're not talking about commitment or _expectations_ , or anything. Just spending time together.”  
  
Jack's brows furrowed; his hand was still cradling his shoulder, and the feel of velvet was soft against his fingers.  
  
Time was a tricky thing to spend.

. * * * .

  
When Bunnymund returned from Berk, it was with quiet pride and enough exhaustion to merit the bunny-nap of a lifetime; Bunny slept for a week afterwards, nestled in his cove in the Warren in peaceful, contented silence. Jack showed up, every so often, to water his plants.  
  
The morning that Bunnymund came to, the Guardians were waiting in the main arena with a fresh basket of carrots for Bunny and bacon for the rest. Jack promised to floss later, at Toothiana's disapproving stare, and the world was peaceful for a moment, as the Guardians celebrated another job well done.  
  
It wasn't until later that night that Jack learned what the others already knew; that Hiccup had defeated the Dragon Queen, and saved his village, and lost part of himself in the process.  
  
(“ _But he gained so much more_ ,” Toothiana reassured him, concern flashing in her wide, pleading eyes.)  
  
So it wasn't completely irrational, then, the stumbling fear that trickled through him all through the night—  
  
 _That could be Elsa._

. * * * .

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. * * * . _  
_  
Early June pressed on, and all the while,  
Jack had one eye trained on the globe,  
carefully watching  
a little blue ring of  
light.  
  
  
Waiting.

  
. * * * .

 


	113. - second thought -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _7/6/14_. I'M ALIVE. Holy cow, I know this is definitely in the running for longest update-wait. Something tells me that it actually won the "longest break between chapter updates" title already, but I'm too afraid to actually check. D:
> 
> Between three (or four) jobs, a summertime social life, final exams, and starting a brand new linguistics course, these last two weeks have been NUTS. Totally, completely NUTS. So. In an effort to keep this story updating regularly, and to help keep me motivated through the long week: ~~REVIEWS REVIEWS REVIEWS (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧~~
> 
> _at the center_ will be updated every **Sunday** and **Wednesday** , indefinitely! ~~Thought probably for the next six weeks, until my summer schedule ends, womp.~~ Anyone who is interested in getting even more up-to-date deets on how each chapter update is going can check out my **[updates ;](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/tagged/therentyoupay%20updates)** tag on [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)! :) That tag is dedicated 100% to pure fanfiction updating news. 
> 
> ~~Fun Fact: Wednesday's chapter is already written and beta'd and I'm already salivating over it, help. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧~~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- second thought -_  
  
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. * * * .  
  
And still, Jack waited.  
  
. * * * .  


No matter how deeply he'd come to accept his fate over the last few years, Jack couldn't help but think about just how much of his existence was spent _waiting_ , and, quite honestly—

He was getting pretty fucking sick of it.  
  
First, it was all about waiting to be seen—seen, heard, _felt_ —finally, by _somebody._ Then—it was about waiting to receive his first special assignment, in those few short days of knowing, beforehand, that there was somebody out there who needed him, and— _as soon as everything was ready_ —he would finally get to meet her—the little girl from a different world, who desperately needed a Guardian. And then it was agony, waiting for the day that she would no longer believe in him, waiting for the ball, waiting for the day she would grow tired of his silly games and get married and rule a kingdom without him, for the years to pass by and leave him forever seventeen, for the day that his days and nights with Elsa would be but a Memory.  
  
Waiting for Pitch to strike. Waiting for him to rise up from the depths of the earth, and cut down everything he held dear. How many days would it be until the next New Moon, until another batch of children lost their Memories to Fear and pain and paranoia?  
  
How long would it be until he came after Elsa's?  
  
The summit was but two weeks away, and still, the small blue ring wrapped around a golden-white dot of light on Bunnymund's special globe remained as peaceful as ever. He checked every day. He magicked one dozen of the eggs to come notify him if something changed—the way he saw Bunny do, sometimes—but no brightly-colored eggs ever arrived, and he didn't trust them, anyway, so he still showed up. Usually when Bunny wasn't there, so he wouldn't have to hear him blathering on about _patience_ again.  
  
Bunny was pretty busy wrapping up things in Berk, anyway.  
  
And the castle wasn't much better. The whole place was strung high with tension—between Anna's quiet jealousy over the prospect of once more missing out on a trip to the Southern Isles and her not-so-quiet anticipation of a soon-to-be announcement of her ball; between the King and Queen's thorough preparations for the journey and their tight-lipped conversations about the preparations being made _specifically_ for a gifted princess; between Elsa's quiet, thrumming excitement and her sudden desire to control _everything_ , honestly, Jack thought Arendelle was a crazy hot mess.  
  
But it sort of made the waiting easier.  
  
Sort of.

. * * * .

  
“Aren't you too big to be sleeping at the window anymore?”  
  
He'd said it to tease her, mostly because he was running out of things for which she could be teased, and then Elsa slowly opened her eyes. He almost regretted it—she'd been so close to actual sleep, and she'd been so fucking _tired—_ but he was a selfish bastard who only got more anxious when she wasn't awake, and more bored when wasn't paying him attention.  
  
And he did start to regret it, a little bit, when she smiled.  
  
“I like the cold,” she answered fondly, as Jack's gut flipped uncomfortably. She was really pretty in the moonlight, and Jack had already exhausted his _stare at her ear_ trick for long enough this evening. He was running out of ploys.  
  
“So?” he challenged, if only just to keep his focus on the conversation, and not the freckles on her nose. “You can make it cold anywhere.”  
  
“True,” she acknowledged quietly, almost dreamily. Jack chanced a glance back at her profile, unable to resist a peek at one of her happier moments. “But I like the stars, too.”  
  
Jack breathed deeply, resisted the urge to say, _You should see what they look like without the window.  
  
_ It was quiet for a while then, as Jack had reluctantly decided to let Elsa finally sleep, but a soft voice broke him from a reverie.  
  
“Jack,” she called, wrapping herself more tightly in her dark blue robe. The tiny trim of lace at the bottom of her nightgown peeked out from underneath the heavy, navy fabric; it was where Jack's eyes most often traveled. “I have a question,” she told him, and he snapped his gaze back to hers.  
  
“I thought you fell asleep.”  
  
“No... I'll sleep in my bed tonight, as long as you're here,” Elsa revealed through a delicate yawn, and Jack's stomach flooded with warmth. (So she _did_ sleep at the window—to wait for him.) He resisted the sudden urge to fly, or flip, or sprawl himself about the floor. _  
  
_“Oh,” was what he said instead, a tiny quirk to an otherwise decent-person's smile. There was something else playing at the tip of his tongue—probably something dirty, something fucking weirdly suggestive, something far more likely to come out of _Bunny's_ asshole mouth than his—and he actually bit down on it, sharp incisors to keep it in place. He was in such a weird mood this evening— _with the rapidly-approaching Summit, and all_ —but Jack couldn't help wondering if that was all it really was.  
  
Not like he actually wanted to think about it, though.  
  
Elsa considered him for a moment, blonde hair tucked away in its twist, then asked, “What would you say to your mother, if you had the chance to see her again?”  
  
It was not a question he'd ever expected to be asked.  
  
But Elsa did not apologize for her curiosity the way she used to; she knew well enough by now that if Jack Frost did not wish to answer a question, then he wouldn't. He'd always told her that she needed to respect her natural inquisitiveness more, anyway. ( _“Don't be afraid to ask for stuff. You know? The worst somebody could do is say no—and then what?”  
  
“And then you seek vengeance in my honor.”  
  
“No. That's not—Elsa, c'mon, seriously, this isn't—okay. Fine. Vengeance. God, you're nuts.”_ )  
  
His mind had rolled into a long, numbing, empty blank.  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“Where'd this come from?” he asked quietly, feeling unnaturally drowsy. It wasn't sleep that was doing this to him. (It was grief. Three hundred years of it, buried down and coiled up, and locked away tight, where he didn't have to think about it.) He tried to remember what Toothiana had told him—a decade ago.  
  
(“ _That pain will always be there, Jack... but to dwell on it would be a dishonor to your mother's Memory. Your family was more than pain and longing and unfinished business. Remember that._ ”)  
  
It had helped, at the time.  
  
Elsa shifted slightly against the wall at the window, and Jack dragged his eyes back from the trim of her dress to the blue of her eyes. She was considering him again, and she'd obviously given this a great deal of thought.  
  
“My parents and I... Well, I suppose... as of late, I've been feeling a little disconnected... Actually,” Elsa sighed, hugging her arms loosely around her front. Jack watched, silently, as Elsa carefully regarded the constellations outside. “More than a little. More than ever.  
  
“You know, it's strange... For all intents and purposes, they're right there in front of me. But—there's this wall,” she explained, brows furrowing slightly. “It's cold, and thick and... I can't help but think that—all these years—this is what we've been building between us. A cold wall, built on noble intentions and misunderstandings.”  
  
 _Conceal_ , thought Jack. _Don't feel_.  
  
“Like shutting the gates?” he asked, something trembling in his chest. They didn't talk about this. (How often had they mentioned the gates, explicitly, over the last ten or so years? Rarely—if ever.) Elsa had never approved of his less-than-fuzzy feelings toward her parents' decisions, but something had shifted since she'd gotten older— _too gradual and subtle for him to notice, right away_ —and he should have seen this coming, should have been better prepared, but it still dredged up a new well of anxiety, any mention of just how imperfect he thought her parents were.  
  
And he wasn't surprised, and he still felt a ball of unease swirling in his gut, when Elsa smiled wryly and said, “My father shut out far more than just the world's dangers.”  
  
Tongue-tied and rigid, he sat; how was Jack supposed to respond to that? He wasn't supposed to take a side, was he? (Because he'd pick Elsa's—over and over and over again.) But she would remember the things he might say about her father— _later_ —and anything that could upset Elsa later was not something he wanted to say _now,_ or ever, so.  
  
So.  
  
Jack swallowed, furrowed his brows, and thought. He asked, “What did he shut out?”  
  
Elsa considered this. “Maybe it's not so much about what he shut out,” she whispered carefully. “Maybe... it's about what he didn't let in.”  
  
“Ah.” Well. “Well, isn't that—isn't that sort of the same thing?”  
  
Elsa's eyes were a lot warmer than they'd been all night, and a little amused, but strangely, that did very little to soothe his nerves. “Maybe,” was all she said, smiling fondly.  
  
All right.  
  
Trying to follow Elsa's train of thought during a really complex discussion was hard, but talking to Elsa when she was sleepy could be a whole hell of a lot harder.  
  
Elsa laughed suddenly, no doubt because of whatever stupid expression his face was making, and trailed off into, “I don't know, Jack... I feel it, though. I look at the two of them, and I feel this _wall_ between us—founded on everything we've ever withheld from one another. And the truth—and the truth is... I'm not... I'm not sure that I'm ready to break it down yet.”  
  
Jack stilled, shocked.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean... I,” Elsa shrugged, a little helplessly, struggling to find the words.  
  
Elsa didn't _lose_ her words. She had them at the ready, always. Unless—unless this was the first time she'd made this discovery, herself. Unless she wasn't filtering her thoughts the way she normally did—was just unleashing them raw, the way that they appeared in her head. Carefully, Jack edged the tiniest bit closer.  
  
He twisted, and shifted his back against the window, letting his shoulders hunch back into the glass. Her bare feet were at his hip, just shy of touching, and when Jack wrapped his arms around his bent knees, his elbows nearly brushed against her shins. He watched her face as she thought, freckles and moonlight and all.  
  
“I don't know if I can forgive them,” Elsa whispered eventually, staring at a fleck of frost on Jack's wrist. “Not yet.”  
  
His mouth had gone impossibly dry. His head was even starting to hurt, and a dull churn was turning up his stomach, uneasy and unsure. “But you love them,” he said, almost as if it were a question.  
  
Elsa smiled wanly.  
  
“I do,” she agreed quietly, and Jack watched as she took in the patterns of frost on his sleeve. “But I'm not so sure that love and forgiveness are the same... I may forgive them, with time... but that is my right. My choice. And I must decide for myself, when I am ready.

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Jack had never thought of it that way.

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. * * * .  
  
Later, when Elsa fell fast asleep against the windowpane,  
Jack tried something new.  
  
In a rare speck of Memory, he recalled the first time he ever felt closely human,  
putting tiny Sophie to bed. She'd been so frail, and clung so tight. She was too young to understand what was real, or not,  
and it didn't occur to him until many weeks later, just what it meant that he'd been able to hold her at all.  
  
It'd been many years since he'd scooped anyone into his arms,  
or tucked her temple to his chest,  
or laid her down under the covers, safe and warm.  
  
And when Jack spied a stray curl come loose from the sweep of her bangs,  
he brushed it back, away from her eyes, without giving the whim  
a second thought.  
  
. * * * .


	114. - imported sherry -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _7/9/14_. I have been waiting for this chapter for a very long time. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Super huge thanks to **SOCKSSSSS** and **ALISON** for beta-ing the last two chapters! The next one will be out on Sunday. :) ~~In the meantime, I'm going to be crying over grad school linguistics projects, so wish me luck. Womp.~~

 

. * * * .

_\- imported sherry -_

. * * * .

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It had been a complete and total accident.

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. * * * .

. **A L C O H O L .**

Jack knew, in the weird part of his mind that kept tabs on the rest of the castle, that every once in a while a bottle of sweet, imported sherry would go missing from the kitchens.  
  
Which was sort of weird, because all of the fine wine was stowed away in a dark cellar that tunneled beneath the gardens, and the special stone staircase that led down to it was usually barred after a certain hour in the evening, and the bakers had no need to be near the ovens until the early morning. If he were brave enough to tell Elsa about it and place a bet as to who the sherry-snatcher was, his money would have been on the hopeless romantic Pavel and his broom closet-loving Olga.  
  
Which was why he was a little more than shocked to find Anna singing ice miner chants to Joan in the gallery one night, and smelling distinctly sherry-saccharine.

  
. * * *.

“Elsa!” she whispered, a near-hiss in the long, empty corridor. “ _Elsa!_ ”

Jack was panicking.  
  
Anna was drunk.  
  
“Elsa, where are you?” she called quietly, then broke out into a trail of hushed, muffled giggles. “D'ya wanna build a sssnowmaaaan?”  
  
“ _Oh, dear god_ ,” Jack let out in one whoosh of breath, stomach flipping violently as he reached out and caught the giant helmet of armor just before it crashed to the floor. He didn't even bother to put it back atop its matching shoulders—Anna was already making her way up the staircase.  
  
For half an hour, this was how Jack followed her throughout the castle halls—picking up after her near-messes, distracting potential passersby and witnesses with a well-timed rush of wind—until finally, she collapsed at the foot of Elsa's bedroom door, pink-cheeked and ruffled and curiously exhausted.  
  
She didn't raise her hand to knock.  
  
Jack did not allow himself a sigh of relief—instead took another deep, steadying breath— _five or six of them_ —and waited for the onslaught. He'd already seen this once before.  
  
But Anna said nothing. Tried nothing. Merely curled herself at the base of Elsa's door, head laid heavy against the frame, and rested, or thought, or... or waited.  
  
She was nearly sixteen.  
  
“Elsa?” she whispered, only to be met with silence.  
  
And suddenly—Jack's chest clenched at the sight.  
  
So many years.

( _So many years...  
And what had changed?  
  
She was a completely different person now, wasn't she?  
And yet she was still that little girl, who missed her sister,  
who didn't understand  
why the world had  
shut her out._ )

  
Very carefully, Jack sat himself behind her; he was always more aware of his chill around her, the sister who seemed more suited to spring and summer than winter. She was wearing green today. And it did. Suit her.  
  
“Oh,” Anna said, blinking. “It's you.”  
  
His stomach dropped.  
  
And then he realized it—in one sharp glance—that she was—she was _looking_ at him, looking _at_ him, was looking straight into his eyes.  
  
 _Fu—ck._  
  
Did he—had he _not_ —?  
  
 _Had he forgotten—?_

(— _to render himself invisible?_ )

  
Something warbled and indistinct released itself from his mouth, something unflattering and undignified and indistinguishable, and then—an automatic reaction, rather than any semblance of thought—a marginally better, “ _Whu—?_ ”  
  
“I knew you'd come,” she declared proudly, finger high, swaying slightly on her feet. Blind instinct compelled him to reach out and steady her, but he still flinched when she hissed with cold. “ _Whoahhh_ , buddy,” she complained, squinting even as she wrapped her fingers around his freezing arms for balance. “Haven't ya heard of hand warmers? Sssomebody's gotta buy you _sssome_ —mittenss.”  
  
His heart was in his throat—? _Stuttering_ —? He was— _what?_  
  
“I—uh, I'll—get right on that,” he mumbled back, arms rigidly holding Anna upright. She kept sagging in his hold, and he was desperately trying to keep as much distance between them as possible—she kept shivering, and leaning towards him, and her teeth were practically chattering as he held her at arms' length.  
  
“ _Say_ ,” she demanded suddenly, as her face pinched and darkened with offense. The tiny creeping of nervousness in his veins exploded into full-blown fear, and suddenly, Anna's nose very much too close to _his_ nose—the smell of sherry, _lingering and_ _strong_ —when she narrowed her eyes accusingly and demanded, “Why haven't you visssited me? In _years_?”  
  
“I—I, uh. I'm sorry?” Jack managed, tripping over his tongue—and his feet, too. Anna's weight leaned heavily upon him as he stumbled over the rug, nearly crashing his back into the wall. With a heavy push from his core, he managed to keep them both upright, if not steady, and slid his hold up onto Anna's shoulders; it made it harder for him to keep her hands from finding purchase in his hoodie, but it made it easier for him to slowly lead her back to her room. Sort of.  
  
“I—uh, I'm here all the time,” he went on, keeping up the conversation as he steered her down the hall. Shit. Why couldn't he remember where her room was, suddenly?  
  
It's not like he'd practically fucking lived there for ten years, or anything.  
  
“You are?” Anna asked, tilting her head to the side. They kept doing this awkward dance in the hallway—sometimes walking backwards, or sideways, whichever way it took to get Anna moving the direction that she _needed to be moved in—_ and Anna tripped over a stupid tassel on the rug in her curiosity, would have pitched forward into Jack's chest had he not swooped down and caught her—lifted her back up, seamlessly, as if she'd never missed a step. His heart was pounding.  
  
“I am,” he echoed, mouth achingly dry. He kept glancing through the empty hallways, frantic that someone would appear at any moment. “I visit you when you're on the roof, but, uh—but you never see me.” Because he fucking _remembered_ to keep himself invisible, stupid dumbfuck that he was, and _why_ oh _why_ was he so damn careless? “And sometimes when you're with your mom, but you don't see me then, either.”  
  
“Well, why not?”  
  
“I—uh, that's because—well. You don't believe in me anymore.”  
  
“That's sssstupid,” Anna declared resolutely, gripping tight to his sleeves. Oh, god. They'd reached a staircase. Okay. “Of course I believe in you.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Jack muttered, then carefully stepped down onto the first step. His hold on her shoulders was becoming a little over the top, but panic prevented him from loosening his grip. At all.  
  
“What—you don't believe me?” Anna retorted, glaring down at him, even as he lead her down two tricky steps.  
  
“I—what? No, I just—watch that— _watch—_ op, okay, never mind. Here, put your—ah, your other foot— _ah_. Okay. Okay. That works, too.”  
  
“Sssso why can I see you now?” she insisted, and Jack jerked back as her chest came dangerously close to his. He took a moment to realign their stances, before he remembered that she'd asked him a question.  
  
“Uh,” he said, smoothly as ever, “You're drunk.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So. _So_ , uh—so you're _kind_ of—never mind. _Just_ —just watch your step. Please.”  
  
“Well, damn, Jack Frost, why don't you just fly us down?”  
  
Jack's eyes grew very, very wide.  
  
Anna's face lit up, and Jack's thumbs shifted helplessly over her collarbones as her hands rose to cover her mouth. She laughed into her palms, giddy with realization, and gleefully whispered, “I am not supposed to _say_ those words.”  
  
Jack's throat had sort of stopped working.  
  
“Uh-huh,” he breathed, slightly too terrified to move.  
  
“Damn,” she repeated, testing it out, then again, “ _Damn_ ,” with conviction. She smiled, eyebrow slanted in a knowing, devious sort of way, and then, with the authority of somebody who owned the word, _“Dammit_.”  
  
Elsa might actually kill him.  
  
“Please,” Anna whispered, and then her hands slipped from her mouth, down to the collar of his hoodie—where the drawstrings hung down, unevenly. “ _Please_ do the magic?”  
  
“I—I don't—”  
  
“It'll be faster,” she persuaded, tilting her head to the side. Her hands tightened around the fabric at his neck.  
  
Jack was not used to this kind of diplomacy.  
  
Lips cracking with dryness, Jack swallowed hard, and whispered, “Do you promise to be quiet?”  
  
Anna's eyes were _glowing_. “Yes,” she whispered breathlessly, nodding so frantically that she had to raise one hand up—to help steady her bobbing head. “Yes, of course!”  
  
This was a terrible idea.  
  
This was a terrible, terrible idea.  
  
But Anna's face was all lit up, and she was very quickly becoming dead weight and jelly in his arms. She was going to crash—and very, very soon.  
  
“Okay,” Jack breathed, torn between a sigh and a groan. “But—just this once. Okay?”  
  
Anna nodded—nearly collided her forehead into his, gripped tight with both hands to the root of his hood. Jack swallowed, allowed one final thought of _what the hell are you doing?_ and then he was bending down to slide one arm beneath her knees—far more fluidly than he'd ever imagined himself capable of—and felt the distinct weight of Anna's arm wrap itself around the back of his neck as he straightened himself out. The stretch of the front of his hoodie pulled downward, taut beneath Anna's careful grip; it seemed that she was a little more nervous than she'd let on... or had perhaps realized.  
  
A sudden rush of adrenaline surged through him, and Jack had the strangest feeling. He tilted his head to the side and looked at her, but her eyes were wide on the spiraling staircase below them.  
  
“It's just like you used to do,” he quietly reassured her, nodding towards the railing. “Remember?”  
  
Anna nodded, wordlessly. Her eyes didn't quite leave the stairs.  
  
Excitement suddenly flooded his veins, bursting and trembling in his arms. Anna could _see_ him—and he didn't care if it was only the dream-drunk sherry that was allowing it—for right now, she could see him, and she needed help, and _this_ —  
  
This was going to be Fun.  
  
Jack's feet left the ground soundlessly, and it sort of hurt, the way Anna's arm tightened desperately around his neck, but Jack didn't mind. They were suspended, softly hanging in midair, and Anna's quiet gasp of thrill and delight felt cold on his cheek.  
  
As they rushed downwards, headfirst and winds whipping, Jack was smiling. And Anna wasn't exactly quiet, but—  
  
They were laughing too hard to care.

. * * * .

  
They burst through her bedroom door with hushed giggles, scolding one another to be quiet. Jack reminded her that no one could hear _him_ , but Anna insisted that it was the _principle_ of the matter.  
  
She was swaying dangerously though, and Jack rushed forward to guide her hands to the bedpost when she tipped forward. She clutched onto the wood gratefully, and hummed thoughtfully as she watched Jack start up a fire in the hearth.  
  
“Not bad for a winter sprite, eh?” he joked, once the flames had risen to a rather impressive height, but Anna's laughter had quieted.  
  
“Why can't I see you the rest of the time?” she asked again, leaning heavily against the frame. There was no longer any trace of humor in her eyes.  
  
And slowly, reality began creeping back into Jack's awareness.  
  
His eyes shifted back down to the hearth, where sparks and cinders glowed bright in the darkness, and Jack gave the timbers one more needless shove. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.  
  
“Well,” Jack relented quietly, not quite yet able to look at her. “I mean... you _might._ If I were to let you, but... I don't know. For sure.” Jack sighed, then turned back to Anna, shifting himself on the rug. “Magic is... sort of tricky like that.”  
  
Anna stepped forward with impressive grace, though Jack remained tensed and ready to catch her, should she fall. His eyes watched her carefully as she lowered herself to the floor, plopped down nearby into a graceless heap with her usual sense of aplomb, and leaned back upon her flattened hands to regard him with knowing eyes.  
  
“So you're saying that if I want to see you again, I should steal more wine?”  
  
Jack's stomach flopped, heated uncomfortably next to the blaze of the fire.  
  
“No,” he said immediately, and felt the distant lick of flames crawling onto his face. “Definitely not.”  
  
She was laughing at him with her eyes—a familiar feeling, for sure, except this time it was so much stronger, the embarrassment, the awkward question of _what do I do with my hands?  
  
_ He poked the fire with the iron stick, for lack of anything better.  
  
“Jack Frost,” Anna laughed, bright and open and unabashed. “It was a _joke_.”  
  
“Uh... Right.”  
  
There was silence for a few moments, and Jack was startled to realize that it had, indeed, become distinctly awkward. At least—for him.  
  
This was—  
  
This was not good.  
  
“How many other people can see you?” Anna whispered, breaking Jack from the growing tension in his head. And that's all it was—in his head. He was making this shit up, _in his head_. Anna was fine. She was acting completely normal—nutty, and a little spastic, and uncommonly drunk—but _he_ , he was the one making it weird.  
  
Why.  
  
“Um... not many,” Jack answered, far from smoothly, and his throat clenched with the sudden realization that he could very easily _fuck things up_ , because if Anna asked about Elsa—as he had once feared, however long ago—and if he let something _slip_ —  
  
“Ssso you should let me see you more often, then,” Anna insisted, tilting her head to the side. “You know. When I'm, like—not drunk.”  
  
She broke out into another violent fit of giggles, obviously enjoying herself, but still, Jack's unease remained. He'd gotten Anna safely back to her room. He'd stoked the fire.  
  
There was no real reason for him to still be here.  
  
“Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'll try that,” Jack offered stiffly, feeling awkwardness wrap itself around his lungs. What was _wrong_ with him?  
  
“You know,” Anna thoughtfully began, staring off into the flames. “It's a shame you can't visit Elsa.”  
  
 _Oh, god_ , Jack stilled.  
  
There it was.  
  
The topic he'd been trying to avoid for years, creeping right up into conversation in the middle of—  
  
Wait.  
  
“Wait, what?” Jack spun around, brows knitting together, confusion and disbelief. He set the poker back in its stand, absently, eyes never leaving her face.  
  
“Well—you know,” Anna said easily, leaning back to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. He could see the flush of sherry, traveling all the way down her neck. “Because Elsa doesn't believe in magic.”  
  
Jack Frost's heart slowed, down to a dull, aching roar.  
  
“What makes you say that?” he whispered, frowning.  
  
Anna sighed, long and deep. The wine must have been taking its greater toll, because her words were slurring and soft, and her head had finally grown too heavy. She carefully lowered herself even further to the floor and laid her back upon the rug. Desperate to hear the rest of what Anna was saying, he shifted closer to her side, so he could still see her face. Her eyes were open, but a little glazed.  
  
(Maybe it _was_ just the alcohol that let her see him, after all.)  
  
But Jack pushed that disappointment aside. Anna twisted her head to face him. With only the smallest trace of humor, she whispered, “Because... magic is about letting people in. The only thing Elsa knows how to do is shut people out.”  
  
Jack's heart leapt into his throat, thick and suffocating.  
  
His mouth opened—to say _what_ , he had no fucking clue—but Anna laughed a dry, brittle laugh, and added, “And be all serious. And perfect. It's why she's gonna be Queen, you know. And I'm not. Oh—and because of all that birthright stuff. But that's okay. I'm okay with just being a Princess, because I never understood all that royal stuff, anyway. No fun, all work,” Anna declared, and blinked. “And because she's old, I guess.”  
  
Jack blinked. “ _Old?_ ” he stuttered.  
  
Suddenly, Anna's head twisted more clearly in his direction. “Say... how old are you?”  
  
“Um. Me?”  
  
“Yeah. You,” Anna smiled, then, “You know... you're a lot taller in my dreams.”  
  
 _Oh_ —  
  
Kay.  
  
Time for—  
  
Time for bed.  
  
“Uh—yeah,” Jack choked out awkwardly, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to get her from Point A to Point Bed without doing something stupid. Or encouraging something stupid. Whatever stupid was.  
  
 _Because_ —you know, he wasn't exactly sure what stupid _could_ be, in this situation, but he was pretty sure this still had stupid written all over it.  
  
 _“_ Uh _—right._ Hey, um—hey, Anna—why don't we, uh, start getting you up and over to—”  
  
“You're not usually this good-looking either.”  
  
Blankness.  
  
Widespread, inescapable, useless _blankness._ His cheeks flooded with heat. His chest tightened considerably. His tongue grew swollen and lopsided and yep, his mouth was hanging open.  
  
“Uh...”  
  
The term _blushing_ did not even begin to cover whatever fuck-all was going on with his fucking face.  
  
“Hey. Will you get offended if I say you're hot?”  
  
For half a second, Jack was blinded with a fresh wave of panic—only to be grounded a moment later, when Anna bust out laughing uncontrollably at her own wry wit. Jack was simultaneously the most uncomfortable and flattered he'd ever been. Definitely uncomfortable. Sort of flattered.  
  
Okay.  
  
Pretty flattered.  
  
Not okay.  
  
“C'mon,” he sighed, ignoring the unavoidable redness of his cheeks. He leaned forward and swiftly gathered the laughing mess into his arms. Scowled, and good-naturedly grumbled, “Let's get you to bed.”  
  
She made a whining noise against his chest, one that reverberated all the way down his spine. He ignored the way it curled his toes, chalked it up to too much adrenaline and too much flattery and the now not-so-unfamiliar feel of having a warm body wrapped up in his arms. This was quickly becoming a habit for the Arendelle sisters, and he was _not_ convinced that it was such a good thing.  
  
He tried not to drop her, really, but Anna shifted a hell of a lot more in his hold than Elsa had. She kept trying to poke her head up to look at him, and he kept his gaze determinedly forward. He even held her tight when he yanked back the covers, let her cling as he battled against the heavy layers, then gently set her down upon the sheets. Surprisingly, she let him go rather easily.  
  
“Everyone is going to the Summit but me,” she told him quietly, and Jack's hand stilled upon the sheets at her waist.  
  
Slowly, Jack straightened, felt the quiet peace that had just started to seep over him faintly drift away.  
  
“What about your ball, huh?” Jack tried, quiet as a whisper. He peered down at her face, still hovering from where he'd meant to help her settle in, and his chest constricted once more at the sight of that dejected look in her eyes. “They'll be announcing that soon—won't they?”  
  
Anna's eyes shifted back and forth between his, looking for something. Her voice was very quiet, and very calm, and very lucid when she whispered, “It's not the same.”  
  
 _No_ , thought Jack. No, it wasn't.  
  
There wasn't much he could say to that, and Anna's eyes were already growing heavy with sleep. It probably wasn't very comfortable, sleeping in her day dress, but Elsa had done it enough times over the last decade for Jack not to be so concerned.  
  
“It'll work out,” he offered lamely, with a false, weak brightness that he desperately hoped Anna wasn't sober enough to pick up on. She sank deeper into the mattress, and Jack took this as an opportunity to trap her beneath the comfortable weight of her blankets. “You'll see.”  
  
Anna's face shifted to him, slow, and gaze piercing, like his words meant something to her. It hit him, again, that for once—she could hear them.  
  
He wondered if this would be the last time.

( _Would she remember, in the morning?  
  
Was this his only chance—to say something on Elsa's behalf?  
What if this was his only opportunity to start to mend their bond?  
  
And he'd wasted it?  
  
On a joy ride and a few stupid compliments? _ )

“You'll come see me again,” Anna whispered suddenly, catching him off guard. Her voice was so quiet, he had to lean down to hear. “Won't you?”  
  
Jack's mouth hung open uselessly. His head hurt terribly, all of a sudden, like he'd been the one drinking instead. He might as well have been, given the flush along his skin and the scent of sweetness in the air. He could almost feel it on his breath, the taste of expensive sherry wine.  
  
“I'm... not very good at keeping promises,” he admitted finally, neither unapologetic nor guilty. He'd come to terms with this sort of thing by now. No point in changing it. ( _Would these be his final words to her?_ ) Jack licked his lips, too overwhelmed to think about the possibilities. “So... I try not to make them in the first place.”  
  
Anna considered this, sleepy haze and drooping eyelids, and then, with no warning at all, leaned up into his space, and kissed him.  
  
 _Eyes wide, heart skipping_ —Jack Frost froze above her.  
  
Her warmth crept into his skin, probably the same way his chill stole into hers, and by the time he realized that he could taste her— _lips parted, skin flushed, breath sweet_ —Anna was falling gently to the bed, head cradled softly by her pillow.  
  
Jack Frost had not been kissed in a very—  
  
— _very_ long time.  
  
He did not breathe. Didn't blink, or swallow, or move his eyes away from her face. For a moment—he wasn't sure that what had happened, had actually happened at all. Maybe— ( _It's all in your head._ )  
  
“It was nice seeing you, Jack Frost,” she whispered, eyelids fluttering sleepily in the light from the hearth. (He'd made that fire, he remembered. He was the one who saw her safely to her room.  
  
 _Guardian_ , whispered a voice, distant and remote.)  
  
“Goodnight, Anna,” he whispered back brokenly, thoughtless, heart-clenching.

He should say something to her, right now, in this moment. Something important. _You are loved. You are loved and cherished, and could be just as wonderful a ruler as Elsa—just different. There are so many people out there who love you. Stop stealing the sherry._ _This was all just a dream_.  
  
 _Elsa loves you, more than anything._

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But Anna was already fast asleep.

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. * * * .  
  
It did not occur to Jack, until the moment he left her window,  
just _exactly_ what it was that had happened.  
  
And, in the morning—  
  
He was just  
another dream  
Anna did not remember.  
  
. * * * .

 


	115. - how curious -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/4/14_. Has it been about a month since the last update? Yes. Am I still technically on hiatus? Yes. Am I still updating with a super long chapter? Yes.
> 
> I don't understand either. JUST ROLL WITH IT OKAY. <3 <3
> 
> No idea when the next one will be out. I have two more weeks of the craziest bat-shit schedule and then I am freeeeeeeeeeeeeee~

 

. * * * .

_  
\- how curious -_

  
. * * * .

You just didn't go around kissing your special assignment's little sisters.  


You just—  
  
Didn't.

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Unless you were an idiot.  
  
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Unless you were Jack Frost.  
  
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**. S E C R E T S .**

 

He fucked up.  
  
And not even in a monumentally life-destroying sort of way—the kind in which the world flipped from sky to surface, or _oh, look—the entire fate of childhood innocence is ruined forever—because of you_. (Because of _Pitch_.) Oh, no. Jack had done something not quite so nearly as terrible, yet twice as bad.  
  
He'd kissed Elsa's little sister.  
  
 _Anna_ —the one who, until a few weeks ago, had been, in his mind, perpetually thirteen-years-old. Or four. (He couldn't decide which worse.) He didn't want to consider it, actually. Ever. Didn't know _why_ he was considering it even now, poking idly at some truly horrific lines of thinking with the same dull, stunned sort of listlessness he was using to poke a finger at some pathetic fluff of snow he'd half-heartedly conjured ten minutes before. He laid on his stomach at the corner of Elsa's rug, marveling that there was any snow at all. Nothing he made today had much substance.  
  
It didn't take a genius to figure out why.  
  
 _I should have given her water_ , he thought suddenly, crumbling the delicate snow mound with a flimsy push of one finger. His stomach clenched at the thought, overcome by the certainty of this newest layer of failure; isn't that what people were supposed to do when other people were _that_ drunk? (Had Tooth given him water? That one time? Bunny certainly hadn't, and forget North; if Jack had been of mind to ask for some water, he probably would have gotten vodka in disguise.)  
  
Whatever. He should have given her some water. He should have stayed invisible in the first place. He should have said something when she _kissed_ him, or afterwards, when she was drifting off to sleep. He should have made that moment _important_ , and appropriate, and meaningful or some shit, and _goddammit_ , he'd messed it up again, gotten caught up in his own little world and why the fuck couldn’t he just be a decent Guardian for _once_?  
  
“Something's missing,” Elsa whispered, a mere five feet away. Jack started, then slowly shifted his chin over his arm. Casually. Minutely.  
  
She was sitting upright— _chin held high_ —even while looking down. She stared at her creation on the floor— _critical eye, hard set of mouth_ —and her knuckles nearly brushed her jaw as she tucked her elbow and arm into her middle, examining her exact replica of Chicago with rapt determination. An impressive collection of modern architecture books laid open to the side, sprawled across the wooden floor, and upon them laid maps and grids and endless colors of high-quality photographs, buildings and skyscrapers abound. Jack looked up from the crook of his arm and let his hand fall limply to the floor. The snow mushed beneath his finger.  
  
“Like what?” he asked, after clearing his throat.  
  
“I don't know,” Elsa mused, so focused that she seemed distracted. “I can't put my finger on it.”  
  
Jack stared woefully down at his limp hand on the floor. He raised it up, reached, and—  
  
“Not _yours_ , Jack. For goodness' sake. Keep those nimble fingers to your own snow fortress, why don't you.”  
  
“Ouch,” he mumbled, half-heartedly. His pile of snow-mush remained a useless slosh on the floor. “No need for mockery, your highness,” he quipped, forcing a teasing lilt into his lopsided tone. “That attempt of a joke was already poor enough as it was without your cold judgment.”  
  
“Oh, hush,” she chided gently, then conjured another stoplight at a main street. Funny. Jack had actually been there before. He could tell it was the same one.  
  
He shouldn't have kissed her sister.  
  
Jack buried his nose in his sleeve, and quietly took a breath. He could still smell the scent of the North Mountain, which was where he spent the better part of the night before...  
  
After leaving Anna's room.  
  
A groan escaped him, muffled by average-quality ( _maybe_ -stolen) fabric and stifling, crippling guilt.  
  
“My goodness,” Elsa said quietly, though Jack did not raise his eyes to meet hers. Better to hide, just a little while longer. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine,” Jack replied, evenly.  
  
Only he really, really wasn't.

. * * * .

  
Olga arrived an hour so later with the most peculiar expression on her face, and a tray with a bowl full of porridge.  
  
Elsa was already stationed at her private dining table near the window, pretending to read a book. Well. In this case, she wasn't exactly pretending; Jack hadn't been the best of conversationalist partners today, brooding as he was, and Elsa had left him to his thoughts with little to no question. On the one hand, he was supremely relieved.  
  
On the other— _annoyed._

While Olga reluctantly showed herself out, he reminded himself that he should not be wishing for Elsa to pry; as respectful as her natural sense of privacy ultimately made her, Elsa _had_ been growing increasingly comfortable with asking questions just this shy of intrusive, and Jack suspected that at least a third of those inquiries were not so innocent of underlying motive as he might have once thought. Did he _really_ want her digging into his head—right now?  
  
Absolutely not.  
  
Because what she'd find was a mess. A horrible, convoluted, malformed, guilt-ridden mess. So guilt-ridden, in fact, that he was _actually_ (sub)consciously _hoping_ that she would ask him how he was doing, point-blank, just so he would have a fucking excuse to spill the fucking beans.  
  
Because he was Jack fucking Frost.  
  
 _I kissed your little sister_ , is what he thought, staring in alarm at the perfect calm that permeated her tiny sanctuary of uninterrupted reading with a warm meal. Once again, he let the realization of it all wash over him— _slowly, like acid eating away at his skin_ ; _like something cold and wet dripping down his spine_ —and stared hard at the surreal image of Elsa taking a careful sip from her spoon, completely unawares, while Jack sat stiff and fidgeting on the floor and thought, _I kissed your little sister, only she's not so little anymore—_ and nearly choked.  
  
Elsa glanced over in concern after the hacking continued, but Jack shook his head sharply, avoiding her gaze.  
  
 _Fucking hell_ , he balked, trying to breathe without gasping. A side-eyed glance told him that Elsa had returned to her meal, but was sending him an occasional, curious look—which he blatantly pretended not to notice.  
  
For fuck's sake, couldn't he have, like—ran into some _other_ girl who'd drank too much sherry and needed help returning to her room? (Like—some _other_ random Princess just chilling in the Arendelle castle? Like the fuck that would ever happen.) Did his first kiss in three centuries _really_ have to be with the one person Elsa cared about more than anyone else in the entire fucking universe?  
  
While she was _drunk?_

 _(She didn't even  
really  
  
Believe  
that he  
  
existed. _ )

Like—what kind of indecent fuck actually did that? Let alone a _Guardian?_ (Of her _sister!_ _?_ )

Holy fuck.  
  
Tooth could never find out.  
  
No one could _ever_ find out.  
  
And— _especially_ —  
  
Not Elsa.

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Never.

 

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. * * * .

  
And then,  
just when he thought  
that things  
couldn't get  
any  
  
worse.

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Jack stared down at the envelope on the desk, confused.  
  
His level tone wasn't recognizable to even himself.  
  
“Elsa... What's this?”  
  
She looked up from where she worked at the hearth; Elsa and her heavy skirts were folded neatly in front of the fire, where she'd spent the last few minutes floating the remains of her miniature Chicago into the flames to melt. She'd hidden it away while Olga had come to deliver and retrieve her dinner plates, and once the dishes were gone, Elsa had finished a few minor touch-ups to her little project that were completely imperceptible to his eye, and then it was time to say, _Goodbye, Chicago.  
  
_ He'd gotten bored while watching her— _restless, bored and restless and anxious and tense_ —and had stood suddenly, meaning to take a brisk walk around the room. He'd ruffled a few pages of a few books as she'd spoken of bigger projects— _greater designs and larger scales and more challenging work—_ and rearranged a few quills within their stand while she talked on, and then his eyes had come to rest on a very familiar seal.  
  
 _Very_ familiar.  
  
Elsa's eyes widened, marginally, when they came to rest on the stark white envelope suspended between Jack's fingers—and then she relaxed. Softened, even.  
  
Jack's stomach clenched.  
  
“Well, look at you snooping,” Elsa teased lightly, smiling wryly as she lifted herself from the floor. Her hands were dry, he knew, without a speck of snow left behind, and suddenly that was all Jack could think about as she walked toward him—how easily the snow could disappear. “Soon you'll be no better than Olga.”  
  
The most he could manage was a dry look, flat and unamused. ( _Could she see the panic? Sparking behind his eyes?_ ) That was his cue for a witty retort. Instead, Jack let the letter slide from his hand as Elsa reached for it. His hand ended up in his pocket, fisted against his stomach.  
  
It took Elsa a few moments to realize that he was still watching her; whatever was in the letter had brought a smile to her face, one that immediately dropped when she looked up to find him standing by. Uncertain, Elsa peered at him and asked, “Well... in honor of Olga's influence... would you like to hear what Henrik has to say?”  
  
Would he fucking ever.  
  
“Sure,” Jack replied, perhaps a bit too brightly. “Why not?”

. * * * .

 

Prince Henrik of the Southern Isles was an unquestionable douche.  
  
Like. Who the hell sent a letter to somebody they were going to see in less than a week, anyway? Hadn't he ever heard of _patience is a goddamn virtue_?  
  
Maybe he was paraphrasing.  
  
But Sideburns wrote about the stupidest, _unnecessary_ , most pretentious shit. Beautiful sunsets, or something. Like where the best view from the castle was, and how _the most divine vista_ could be seen from atop the roof-deck of the western library, which was— _conveniently_ —where she would be staying with her family. (Just her parents; Anna wasn't allowed to go.) And did personal correspondence really _need_ such fancy, flowy script, anyway? He doubted that the Isles' royal subjects cared that much about penmanship, either, and seriously, didn't these royal people have anything better to do?  
  
Not everybody had a bazillion years to devote to learning calligraphy, all right.  
  
 _Some_ people had more important things to do with their time.  
  
His handwriting was fine.  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
“Elsa,” Jack blurted suddenly, cutting her off mid-sentence. Her end of the (admittedly one-sided) conversation had something to do with the first night's dinner, or something, and she looked so surprised at being interrupted that Jack actually felt a little bad. _Whatever_ —he couldn't dwell on that now, because something had just hit him like a punch to the gut, so hard that he actually had to resist the urge to snatch the letter from her hand as he demanded, “When do you leave? Like—which day?”  
  
Her eyes blinked, caught between her own thoughts and the forcefulness of Jack's. “I—well. Rather soon, actually,” Elsa answered, unused to such a harried tone. “The Summit begins the morning of the first day of the seventh month, but we shall leave three days before. It's two days' journey, but,” a single pause, as color warmed her cheeks, “we intend to arrive early... as there are additional matters that my father and the King of the Southern Isles would like to discuss.”  
  
The numbers were whirring inside Jack's head, so fast and so many until his mind was tripping over them. “That's... so that's how many days, then?” Jack managed, trying to sort through the irrational sense of tightness gripping at his chest. Something should have been adding up—and it wasn't. “Until you leave?”  
  
“Well... if the lunar calendar is to be consulted, we are to leave in six days,” Elsa answered smoothly, with a gentle nod of remembrance. “The ship is finishing its preparations, and the emissaries will arrive shortly to escort us. It rather seems a bit much,” she commented, with just a hint of nonchalance, but Jack could see the excitement simmering in her eyes, and then she broke the facade immediately, and settled into a grin, “Though I must admit that it only adds to the allure. Don't you think?”  
  
“Right, yeah. Visionaries.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Visionaries,” Jack repeated, staring hard at the wall. Six days. There was something happening in six days. Did he forget somebody's birthday? “Like you said.”  
  
“No, Jack,” she laughed, and Jack's head swiveled toward hers. “Not _visionaries—_ emissaries. Delegates from the Southern Isles' to see us on our journey. It's completely unnecessary, but father says that the Southern Isles have always favored the type of flair that includes acts of such impressive accommodation.” Her eyes dropped down to the carpet, suddenly fascinated with the patterns she'd seen every day since she was five. “Henrik expressed his wishes to be our escort in his last letter, but he was personally requested by the Duke of Weselton. Not to mention, his third-oldest brother, who I hear is very kind, has been our escort for many, many years,” she explained, and Jack felt a little sick, looking at the way she covered her disappointment with a small, cheerful smile. The numbers and days inside Jack's head were lost.  
  
“Oh,” he said elegantly. “Well, that's... that's not too bad then.”  
  
What a horribly awkward thing to say. What a horribly, inexcusably awkward conversation and— _what was worse?_ That he was the only one that felt it?  
  
Or that Elsa had no idea what had prompted this feeling in the first place?

( _You betrayed her_ , whispered a slithering voice,  
until Jack killed it,  
  
cold and dead.)

  
“It's all very exciting, isn't it?” Elsa asked quietly, and before Jack knew it, she was striding towards the bed—and then not. She was pacing about the room in the most unusual way, and Jack was growing dizzy just watching her. He wished that she would sit upon the covers or the floor—like she normally did—but then he gave up and tried to pay attention to what she was saying, as he hadn't been doing a very good job all afternoon, and then something caught his attention with such ferocity that he _flew._ Elsa stopped short, and Jack's hands reached out to steady her as she stepped back in alarm.  
  
“Wait—what did you just say?”  
  
Elsa was beginning to look truly concerned now. “We are... scheduled to arrive even before some of the parties from the far east,” she told him slowly, repeating her words with care. “It's partly to do with this being our first show of attendance in years, and also to do with our potential... _negotiations_ of—”  
  
“No, not that part,” Jack insisted impatiently, and pleaded with his eyes and his face for her to understand because apparently his words weren't doing that great a job of it. “The part about the lunar cycle again. The—the moon thing.”  
  
“Oh,” Elsa blinked. “You mean... the _New_ Moon?”  
  
Jack's blood ran colder.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
“The _what_?”  
  
“The New Moon,” Elsa repeated, and she was looking at him differently now—skeptical. Like she didn't recognize him. ( _Get a grip_ , scolded a voice, tinged with urgency, even as something cold and insistent crawled down his spine. _Pull yourself together, Frost_.   
  
And he tried.)   
  
He was mid-breath— _it was deep, and unsatisfying_ —when Elsa tilted her head to the side and said, “It's scheduled to reach its darkest state on the eve of the Summit, which is partly why we must arrive so early. The torches they burn in celebration on the Southern Isles are especially bright in the near darkness,” she added, strangely thoughtful. Her eyes narrowed slightly at his silence.  
  
Elsa was looking at him like she expected him to say something; to answer the unspoken question on her face, or at least acknowledge it, but Jack hardly seemed capable of the feat. Blindly, his mind scrambled for words.  
  
“Are you... are you sure?” he asked her, schooling his face back into some measure of control. Jack's eyes dropped to the tight hold his hands had taken over her arms— _so unnecessary, why did he do that?_ —and then they swiftly fell away, back to his sides. Elsa looked fully prepared to seize them back if it meant getting an answer.  
  
It just wasn't one that he was prepared to give.  
  
“Certainly,” she replied, curious and strange. A single brow arced over expectant, piercing blue, and Jack was coward enough that when it lingered one second too long, he ducked his gaze away. His arms crossed, awkward and stiff, and his jaw felt way too tight. ( _Say something, you idiot. She's going to think something's wrong. Calm the fuck down. Figure it out._ ) Involuntarily, Jack's eyes slid to the elegant envelope resting on the desk.  
  
( _You are doing a shit job._ )  
  
“Jack,” Elsa called, stepping forward to reclaim the space he'd so indelicately removed himself from. Her voice was stern, more a command than a question— _a Princess_ —but her eyes were worried, and during the stretch of silence that sounded after his name, it took him a moment to remember where he was.  
  
He was freaking out.  
  
“Jack—what is going on?”  
  
A stupid shrug, totally not believable, but it was all Jack could do to stall for time. There was no way she'd believe an outright lie—not now, thanks to his fucking twitchiness and his overreactions and he was so stupid, _so_ _stupid_ —because _how_ could have have not realized it sooner?

 

( _He's going to attack_ , whispered a voice, like a cold breath  
on the wind.  
  
 _It's the Turning Point_ , hissed another, in dismay and alarm,  
and Jack suddenly felt weak in the knees.  
  
 _He's coming_.)

How much omission was _not enough?_  
  
“Jack—I demand to know what's going on this instant. And don't you dare tell me it's nothing, Jack Frost, because I can see perfectly clearly that there _is_ something. What is it?” she demanded— _voice low, chin high_ —and then she was in his space, and escape was less of an option than ever. “Is something wrong with the Summit? How do you know? What does this have to do with the Guardians—of Childhood?”  
  
 _“Hey—_ the Guardians are responsible for all sorts of stuff, all right?” Jack defended, too quickly and—perhaps—a bit too harshly. (Jack winced as Elsa reared back in indignant surprise.) The tiniest edge of a scowl worked itself onto Elsa's face, and Jack struggled to backtrack. “It's—we're more than just childhood protectors, okay? A whole bunch of stuff is connected to each other—whether we like it or not.”

( _He's coming._ )

Fuck—  
 _  
Keep it together._  
  
Elsa considered this, stern and stone-faced. “So, what is it?” she prompted after a long moment, and then her arms crossed themselves over her front. It was a gesture she usually reserved for talking about something she didn't like—like lying, or patriarchy, or folding back the corners of pages in old, beloved books. He was not used to seeing it pointed in his direction. ( _He was not used to seeing it pointed in his direction_.)  
  
By the time that Jack realized just how deep of a hole he was in, Elsa was starting to look well and truly angry.  
  
“You're keeping something from me,” she whispered, eyes widening. The essence of realization, itself.  
  
Jack struggled not to beg.  
  
“It's—it's not that simple,” he said, and that was—that was _not_ what he had been planning to say. Panicking, Jack clutched his grip more tightly around his useless biceps and declared, “It's not about the Summit! It's—it's totally different!”  
  
“ _What_ is?”  
  
“ _Dammit_ , Elsa—this isn't something I'm supposed to share! Okay? There _is_ , but I'm not supposed to tell you!”  
  
Elsa's eyes widened further at the confession. _Shit._ Maybe she'd only been pushing him because she hadn't been certain, herself—maybe she hadn't really _known_ , actually, that something was wrong. ( _He's coming. Pitch is coming, and he's prepared_.)

( _Fu—ck._ )

  
Maybe—maybe he'd just walked straight into another of her word-traps, her political agendas— _but no, this was Elsa_ —and that, Jack realized, was exactly right; this was Elsa.  
  
And she looked very worried, indeed, as she stared at him, and he stared at her, and something shifted between them.  
  
The unspoken secrets danced upon his tongue.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa said very quietly, and she was still looking at him strangely, like she wasn't quite sure who he was. She was standing very still, and... and she looked afraid. He could see all the nuances of it now—now that he was actually seeing her.  
  
It hurt.  
  
His chest constricted, tight and chilled, and he was sighing before he even realized he'd drawn a breath. The sigh rang out like a surrender, and Elsa's eyes widened in dismay—certain of some disaster that Jack could not even imagine—and then she was lowering herself down to sit on the bed, shakily. Her arms hugged herself tightly as she stared down at the floor, and Jack felt like the worst kind of friend.  
  
“It's... complicated,” Jack said at long last, quiet and calm and so fucking uncertain about what he was supposed to do. It wasn't long until he fell to the edge of the bed alongside her, where he let his hands fall uselessly to his lap. His heels dug into the paneled floor, stone anchors on pretty hardwood.  
  
“Is it... bad?”  
  
Jack bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating. “Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Yeah, it... it kind of is. I was...” He cleared his throat gently, though it was still loud in the tense silence. Jack chanced a glance her way, but she was still staring at the floor. Dejected, Jack trained his eyes on the wooden grain and uttered out a defeated, “I was sort of hoping that you'd never actually find out.”  
  
The words that were meant to follow died on his tongue. A soft breath escaped her—a scoff, or something like it—and then she shook her head, slowly, and soon, he realized—she was laughing to herself.  
  
The kind you did to keep yourself from crying.  
  
Alarmed, Jack twisted to face her and leaned forward, not daring to reach out a hand. Not yet.  
  
“Elsa?”  
  
Another soft sigh escaped her, soothed and sad, and she continued to avoid his gaze as she said, “I haven't seen you act this way in quite some time.”  
  
There was something unsettling about her tone. Perhaps it was the subtle layer of disappointment simmering just below the surface—or the unvoiced question laced through her words. Whatever it was, it also sounded sort of like an accusation.  
  
Jack didn't like it.  
  
“What way?”  
  
He didn't realize he was scowling, until he noticed Elsa's frown.  
  
 _“This_ way,” she replied evenly, though her voice had gone especially quiet. “Defensive... on edge. You're more secretive than usual, and tense all the time. You don't enjoy games the way you normally do.” She paused, pursing her lips, then ventured, “When you think that you are capable of hiding something.”  
  
His eyes widened considerably. “Elsa—it's not _mine_ to reveal! You weren't—I wasn't supposed to—”  
  
“ _Jack!_ ” Elsa cut him off, frustration and anger; a fresh, jagged blade of ice. It was a strenuous feeling, being on the end of this unique tone— _fierce and unforgiving_ —and Jack didn't know how to stop it. He was on the verge of arguing again, trying to find some way to veer her attention _away from this nightmare_ , but then Elsa pinned him with a look, solid and stern, and Jack felt trapped in his own skin.  
  
“You have this expression on your face, you know,” she whispered. “I'm not sure you realize it, but it's there. The last time I saw it was... perhaps four years ago.” Her expression grew colder at the look of confusion that no doubt crossed his face, but Jack's gaze was steady, even as his mind spun helplessly, useless and blank, searching for a Memory. “We were at the windowsill,” she supplied, eyes hard, and a sudden tremor took to her voice, tiny and frail, and Jack's stomach lurched. “You were very upset,” she reminded him. “And I was very worried.”  
  
“Elsa...? I don't—”  
  
“You've been _acting_ ,” she spoke clearly, and in her eyes was a question that he couldn't understand. There was more to what she was asking, and Jack couldn't figure it out. She seemed to realize this. Disappointed, her face crumbled, little-by-little, until her words were a disparaging sigh. “And you're worried about something. But you don't want to tell me.”  
  
The words were too familiar.  
  
He wasn't expecting it, when she looked him in the eye and asked, point-blank, “Are you leaving?”  
  
Jack's lips parted, burdened with shock. The air felt cold between them, and heavy, and no words would come out.  
  
His eyes fell to the hands clasped tightly in her lap. Realization stabbed through like a shard of glass, tumultuous and sharp. No matter how tightly she held them together, Jack could see that they were shaking. Unthinkingly, Jack reached out and clasped them in his own, tight and safe and cold, and it was only her hiss of breath that reminded him to look into her eyes, to reassure her.  
  
“Absolutely fucking not,” he breathed, and it was as sure as hell as much of a promise as he'd ever made one. Elsa flinched back, whether because of his words or his tone—Jack didn't know—and then Jack was pulling her hands to his chest, pulling himself closer to her side. She held back, distant in more ways than one; she was unconvinced, which was just about the most ridiculous thing he'd seen all fucking day.  
  
“I should hardly think so,” Elsa responded coldly, and Jack blinked at first, unaware that he'd stated anything out loud. Her fingers squeezed around his cold ones, though, and her voice sounded suspiciously tight. “It is not such an irrational assumption to make.”  
  
Jack suffered a terrible, ill-timed urge to laugh.  
  
And then he was launching himself forward, ignoring her indignant cry, and wrapping his arms around her, trapping her hands and her small frame to his chest. Her hair was soft against his cheek, and his chest felt tight and her shoulders fit easily under his palms. And she was muttering threats against him, little angry Elsa-curses that held as much bite as they did bark—or at least, they would have, had Jack been willing to hear them. He flopped his shoulder down onto the duvet, a Princess wrapped up in his cold, skinny arms.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he whispered into her hair, over the angry string of faults against him. Elsa quieted and stilled within his grasp, and Jack waited, unnaturally patient. He'd been a fool all afternoon. There was a lot to fix.  
  
Elsa's breaths sputtered against his chest. He could feel them, actually, through the tiny holes between the threads in his hoodie—little puffs of anger and frustration and something he dared not yet label relief.  
  
“You don't— _why_ —this isn't a funny game, Jack,” she meant to hiss, only it came out muffled against his chest. Jack's skin tingled where he felt her lips move. Her hands were still balled into fists, and every so often, they sought to remind him—remind herself—of her anger. A breath escaped him as one connected hard with his sternum, and Jack reluctantly reconsidered his latest impulse; but even when Jack loosened his hold, Elsa only dug herself deeper. She burrowed herself into him, face and fists and tiny warmth, all fury and closeness and comfort.  
  
“No,” Jack whispered back, and tightened his hold once more. Her shoulders were so small. “It's not.”  
  
Elsa was quiet for a while then and, for a time, the only sounds in the room were those of her quiet breathing. Not even the sounds of the harbor could be heard beyond the closed glass panes. And then, when the time seemed right, Jack tucked the crown of Elsa's head below his chin, and breathed.  
  
He tried to imagine the expression on her face.  
  
“Something terrible is going to happen,” she whispered, a soft hush in the silence. “Isn't it?”  
  
His tongue was thick in his throat. He readjusted his chin, careful not to press his jaw too sharply against her, and tried to quell his sigh. “It might,” he answered honestly, “But it's not what you thought. And... truthfully, it won't actually happen to you.” Jack resisted the urge to breathe deeply into her hair, then asked himself, _Why?_ and gave up. He inhaled, long and deep, and sighed, a low and tired hum. “North and the others have made sure of that.”  
  
Elsa digested this information the way she consumed everything else; with time and impossible care, from every angle and perspective. Thoroughly.  
  
“Is this... Does this have to do with why you are so worried about Tooth?”  
  
He was becoming more aware of the way she fit in his arms. The soft press of hair to his neck. The pointed jabs of her knuckles laid back against his sternum. The way the toes of her flats dangled off the side of the bed with his—just an inch or two shorter.  
  
“Yes,” Jack swallowed, determined not to move his hands. “It's... It's been over a year now.”  
  
The very breadth of her was so small. And he'd—he'd never been very wide to begin with, always more long than he was lean—but Elsa. She—she tucked herself into him easily, enveloped by his arms. He could fit himself around her, completely.  
  
“Are you... are you allowed to tell me?”  
  
Jack Frost frowned minutely. The warm cloud that had begun to gather at his chest was already staring to dissipate.  
  
“ _If_ ... I tell you the story,” he cautiously began, “I can't tell you everything.”  
  
Jack waited, but not for very long. Elsa shifted her cheek against him, another small puff of air, and then he heard, “Because I'm human?”  
  
Jack Frost swallowed. “Especially because you're human,” he replied quietly. Automatically, Jack's eyes swiveled to the beautiful journal on her desk across the room, eyes glazed in thought. “Stories are what keep us real.”  
  
She was very still against him, obviously in thought. The blue of her journal was growing faded, all too visible in the clear light of day. He would have to get her another one—for Christmas. Or, _maybe_ , another idea slipped inside—  
  
To take with her.  
  
Something welled within Jack's throat, impossibly large and thick. He tried to reach for air with his lungs, as quiet as a gasp might possibly be, and then Elsa's voice floated to his ears, a quiet, “Will you please tell me?”  
  
Jack's eyes rose up to the ceiling, struggling to put his words in order; the underside of the canopy offered no help, not that it normally did.  
  
A deep, steadying breath.  
  
“It doesn't have to do with _you_ , specifically.” ( _At least—not yet_.) Jack shook his head gently, refusing to let that seep in. ( _Not if I can help it._ ) “It's... something that's been around for centuries. I... handled it once, before I met you, but... it's been a long time,” Jack licked his lips, painfully dry. “And now it's striking back.”  
  
(Should he say more? Jack was terrified that he'd already given away too much. Would Elsa understand—why he couldn't tell her the truth?  
  
Would that matter?)  
  
“I see,” she said quietly, and Jack stiffened at the thoughtful tone of her voice. She'd tilted her head away from his sweatshirt at last, and her words came clearly in the quiet.  
  
“If... it is a force that you have dealt with before... well. I'm sure you will find a way to fight it again,” she answered reasonably. He clung to each sound, and as they rolled off her tongue, Jack grew more and more disbelieving; Jack Frost's luck was never this good. She spoke with a certain confidence that Jack recognized, but did not feel. Jack did not bother to remind her of all the ways that this—this _force—_ might have grown in years past, or strengthened; Elsa was a strategist; Elsa already knew.  
  
Elsa also Believed in him, and believed that he was capable of defeating it.  
  
It made his heart squeeze in his chest, and it made him want to throw up.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa said after a long minute. “I know this is not the only thing that is on your mind.”  
  
 _Lie_.  
  
His frown almost hurt, and dismantling it hurt twice as bad. “I've got a lot on my mind,” he answered vaguely, acutely aware of the way his hands cupped her shoulders. Like they belonged there.  
  
“Yes,” Elsa quietly replied, and he didn't understand it—the way that she could still make one word sound so fond, even after all that. He didn't deserve it. In her voice was a smile, just a little one, and she said, “You usually do.”  
  
Jack ignored the unbearable heat burning through his chest.  
  
“Is it... does this also have to do with Tooth?”  
  
Denial was just a bite away. It would come so easily—( _lie)_ —this truth—( _l i e_ )—and then Jack wondered— _was_ it true? After all?  
  
“Maybe,” he answered hesitantly. “I don't know. It might be part of it.” He remembered that day on the balcony, not too long ago, and fixing Memory Boxes and sparkling fizzy juice, and being smiled at like he meant something. It didn't hold quite the same draw, not when he remembered what Memories came after it—disappointment, and ignorance, and _god, why was he so fucking ungrateful?_ —and then his thoughts filled with the furnishings of a similar room in a not-too-distant part of the castle, and the remembrance of freckles and sweet sherry and warm lips pressed against his. “Actually. Actually, it sort of is,” he forced out, as a too-familiar warmth flooded his cheeks.

He could feel the flare of curiosity swell up beside him, so strong and so real that he actually winced, but Jack would not be deterred. He wouldn't be tricked into giving anymore away. ( _Was that—  
_  
A sigh of relief?)  
  
Confused, Jack peered down her. She was—she was smiling.  
  
“Elsa?” he tried, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.  
  
“I don't suppose you'd like to talk about it,” she offered slyly, and then made a move as if to pull away. Horrified of the no-doubt visible flush on his cheeks, Jack did not allow her to let go.  
  
“Jesus,” he grumbled, frustrated; Elsa tipped her head up to look at him—this was a new word, as he'd only just gotten the hang of the context after his latest trip to New York—but Jack pointedly did not look down at her. “I would rather not.”  
  
“Your tension suggests otherwise.”  
  
Jack scowled into her hair, too flustered and angry to be appropriately mortified. “How would you know?”  
  
“After little more than a decade, I think I am allowed to consider myself something of a Jack Frost expert.”  
  
His stomach tumbled suddenly at those words. A blind, irrational fear prodded at him—that she could actually feel his unease, like some physical clue. The truth of her words at once both soothed him, and terrified him, because if there was one person in any of these worlds that could claim such a title—it was Elsa.  
  
She, who already knew so many of his secrets.

“Hey, what... what kind of promise is a kiss?”  
  
Fuck.  
  
That was—that was _not_ what he'd been planning to say.  
  
Elsa pulled back immediately, thoughtful and bemused. His face _burned._ With shame, embarrassment— _guilt—_ it didn't matter.  
  
It didn't help when she looked at him so carefully, calculating and assessing from just a foot away, and curiously asked, “Have you offered her either?”  
  
 _Holy—_  
  
Elsa was not supposed to ask him these kinds of questions point-blank. Elsa was not supposed to ask him these kinds of questions at _all_.  
  
( _Tooth,_ he remembered. They were talking about Toothiana. He reminded himself of that, in case he—in case he said something _stupid_.)  
  
“No,” he muttered forcefully, before he could slip out a questioning _Who_ — _Toothiana?_ by accident. “No, I haven't.”  
  
“All right. So you haven't yet.”  
  
“I haven't.”  
  
“Right. But you might,” Elsa tilted her temple deeper into the mattress, examining him. “Would you like to?”  
  
“W-would _I_ —ugh. You always ask questions like that.”  
  
“You never seem to know how to answer.”  
  
“So?” Jack bit out defensively. One arm had fallen to her side when she'd pulled away. He was suddenly more aware of the way the crook of his elbow slotted over the dip in her waist than ever. He didn't swallow too loudly, at least, when he argued, “I thought that was the point. That I don't _need_ to have an answer yet.”  
  
Elsa waited a few moments, and Jack's thoughts inevitably took off, swirling amidst the storm of guilt that was brewing inside. It was almost no surprise at all, then, when Elsa nodded gently and prompted, “But...?”  
  
 _Aw—  
  
Fuck it.  
  
_ “But... is that fair?” Jack asked her, and even as he spoke the words, he—he wasn't really sure what he was asking at all. (Was _what_ fair?)  
  
( _Nothing is fair._ )  
  
Jack shook his head, sharp, and stiff. “Is it fair to just—let things hang like this? I mean—we haven't even talked about any of this. At all.”  
  
He was talking about Tooth, he reminded himself.  
  
About Tooth.  
  
“Well... maybe she's just as afraid that broaching the conversation will change things. Irrevocably,” Elsa reasonably replied. Her hands laid gently upon the covers between them, calm and relaxed. Perhaps for the first time all day. Jack was still considering them— _their size and shape, and softness?_ —when Elsa suggested, “Maybe she likes the way things are, no matter how curious she is.”  
  
Jack frowned, and looked up. Nothing was amiss. “Curious?” he asked.  
  
For a moment, she almost looked embarrassed.  
  
“Well,” Elsa shrugged. “Isn't she?”  
  
He opened his mouth, presumably to speak, but hadn't a thing to say.

  
. * * * .


	116. - scorching sand -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/10/14_. Just a quick one! These last few weeks have been nuts. A huge thank you to all of those of you who are still reading!  <3 <3

 

. * * * .

\- _scorching sand_ \- 

. * * * .  


 

Or, eight valuable lessons Jack Frost learned after kissing Princess Anna of Arendelle:

 

_( 1 )_

He was a shitty liar.  
  
(Rather: he was a shitty _person,_ because he was a phenomenal liar.) For somebody who didn't spend much time talking to anybody but himself for a century or three, he seemed to have a pretty good grasp of balancing the truths with just enough of the not-truths. And the silence.  
  
There was a lot of silence in omission.  
  
But what was done was done... and there wasn't very much that Jack could do about it now. It took a few laps around the Northern Sea the first night after the Incident to come to that conclusion (or the Kiss, when he allowed himself to call it that), but ultimately he came to realize that, maybe, it wasn't as bad as things had originally seemed. ( _Maybe none of it was as bad as it seemed._ ) He'd gotten caught up in the—well—in the _Fun_ of it all, but he was learning, wasn't he? Maybe these kinds of screw-ups were to be expected. _Maybe_ —he should try to forgive himself a little bit more often. Sometimes. Maybe. Let things go.  
  
Anyway, Jack tried his hardest not to get too caught up again; in the guilt, or the embarrassment, or the nagging voice in the back of his mind that kept wondering, _What will you do if Elsa finds out?_

 

_( 2 )_

Anna was actually adorable.

Which was a problem. It was so much of a problem, in fact, that he wasn't even going to go into it. At all.

 

_( 3 )_   
  


The first time he _did_ check up on Anna, on the second evening after the Incident, Jack was not all that surprised to find her reading a rather impressive collection of romance novels by her window. And by _reading_ , of course, Jack actually meant _staring out the window at the fjord in thought_ , while holding a simple-looking book in her lap. There were a dozen of them stacked beside her on the sill—a rather impressive display of ambition, in his opinion—but Anna's attention was reserved solely for the early traces of summer. The green was spreading throughout the gardens with invigorating freshness, sprucing up the walls with vines and leaves and buds to bloom, and here Anna sat, staring.   
  
He made sure to slip in, unnoticed.  
  
And he wasn't sure what to feel when, for the most part, she seemed completely normal—in a good mood, even. If what he felt was more relief or confusion or curiosity.  
  
Or disappointment.

 

 _( 4 )_   
  


Toothiana seemed surprised to see him when he came to visit her at the Tooth Palace, and the first thing Jack thought was, _God, how long has it been?_ She seemed genuinely pleased to see him though, and offered him a cup of juice on the spot. It was tempting, but— _thinking of the prickly taste on his tongue, the bitterness of those biting words_ —Jack politely declined.   
  
He did help her fix a few more things around the palace, like that rickety leg of that old welded, bronze table. She seemed sincerely grateful, and interested in how he'd been, and smiled wide with all of her perfect teeth.  
  
Jack made sure to keep his smiles closed for the sake of the little ones during the entire length of his visit; it was a lot easier than he would have liked to believe.

 

_( 5 )_

Somehow, at some point, the rules had changed.  
  
Did his impulsive, presumptuous hug somehow translate over into the general, daily guidelines for how to be Elsa's Guardian? Was Elsa the one who made this unspoken decree, completely separate from anything Jack had done? (Or would like to _think_ that he'd done?) Did his presumptuousness know no bounds? Jack had no idea.  
  
All Jack knew was that when he raised his hands up in impatient defeat, Elsa would swat them away; when he sat too close to her near the fire and he nudged her feet to the side, Elsa would nudge them back; when Elsa would fiddle with a loose strand of hair after a snowball tussle gone awry, Jack wouldn't even bother to ask before taking care of the matter on his own; when Elsa fell asleep by the window, she never seemed very surprised at waking up in her bed the following morning.  
  
And sometimes, when he stayed very late— _on those few remaining nights, the calm before the storm_ —when the castle was busy with last minute preparations because— _only three days away—_ Elsa asked him to read with her before she fell asleep, and Jack didn't even mind staring at the pages for so long, in truth.  
  
Jack always stayed above the covers— _free to fly at any moment—_ and Elsa always huddled beneath the ocean of blankets of her enormous bed— _book spread open across the tent of her tabletop knees_ —but Jack liked to look at the way their thighs pressed together as she got lost in her reading, all words and sounds and stories.

 

_( 6 )_

Elsa was actually going to leave.  
  
It him one morning, on the way to Bunny's Warren, and he nearly crashed into the Pacific Ocean.  
  
He made it to one of Japan's smallest islands before his limbs gave out, and then he was crumpled on a rocky beach at the tattered edge of someone's humble home, cheek pressed unforgivingly to hot, scorching sand.  
  
In two days, the ships of prosperous Arendelle would set sail and, for the first time in nearly ten years—members of the royal family would be upon it.  


( _Royal._ )  
  


Royal Summits and Turning Points and _Pitch_ and sisters and _isn't it fucking hilarious_ , that Elsa would dare grow so angry at the thought of _him_ leaving—  
  
When she was the one ready to go.

 

_( 7 )_

Bunny didn't get a visit from him that day, but then again—neither did Elsa.  
  
He came to her window well past dark, covered in sand and smelling unappealingly of seaweed, but Jack only thought, _Why not?_ He shouldn't have to worry about stuff like that, anyway. Elsa gave him a curious look when his bare feet left a lingering trail of delicate sand upon her wooden floor, but said nothing.  
  
Jack took up his familiar post on the rug, lazing, gaze upturned toward the ceiling, and Elsa read quietly at the window.  
  
It wasn't until a few hours later that Jack realized he was miserable, and that he'd wasted an entire day— _only two left, now_ —and when it hit him, wrecking ball to the chest, Jack actually leapt to his feet, sand shifting easily into the delicate threads of the rug. His feet carried him to the sill, throat thick with half-formed apologies and an itch in his eyes, but all he found was Elsa, curled into herself against the window.  
  
Jack Frost stared down in awe at the carefully-closed book set gently upon the floor. Elsa, it seemed, had finished her reading quite some time ago.  
  
He vowed not to leave her side for the rest of the night, no matter how little recompense it might offer for much of a sorry-excuse for a friend he'd been during the rest of the day. Because— _as Jack was ever-learning_ —he could spend an entire day with Elsa— _a meal, a morning, a lifetime_ —  
  
And it'd never be enough.

.

.

.

.

.

.

And finally:  
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.  
  
 _( 8 )_  
  
  
Elsa still had nightmares.  
  


. * * * .

 


	117. - and distant -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/19/14_. HIATUS IS OVER! Thank you so much for your patience, everybody! The last eight weeks have been really hard with working full-time and grad school and tutoring and a whole bunch of other stuff, and it's nice to finally have a week off to relax and enjoy myself. A huge thank you to everyone who left birthday wishes on my tumblr last Thursday, who left lovely comments on the latest chapter update, and to all those who offered nice words of encouragement along the way! 
> 
> There's been EVEN MORE more beautiful fanart drawn for this story, and I still have to link back to a WHOLE BUNCH of them, so I'm hoping to share those links sometime later this week! In the meantime, check out [this gorgeous piece that was just posted a few hours ago](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com/post/94917209817/this-is-an-interesting-look-for-you-elsa#notes-container). This artist ROCKS! <3 <3
> 
> I've been working on this chapter off-and-on for the last month or so, and I have a few more lined up and ready for beta-ing, so I'm hoping to have at least two more chapters posted within the next two weeks! Another huge thanks to all the commentors, kudos-givers, reviewers, and rec list makers! :) Your support is SO VERY MUCH APPRECIATED!

 

. * * * .

_\- and distant -_

. * * * .

Elsa woke with a gasp of frost and Jack's hand on her shoulder.  
  
The silent fear that had been crawling into Jack's gut hardened into a heavy pit and churned, rolling sideways against the inner-walls of his stomach. The tips of Elsa's nails dug fast into his forearm, clutching tight to the cotton sleeve and the flesh beneath it, and Jack's other hand wrapped itself around her cold fingers, like he had any warmth to give.  
  
“ _Elsa,_ ” he whispered again, eyes wide. “ _Elsa—you're awake._ ”  
  
No blinks. Barely a hitch of breath, or a flicker of light in the color of her eyes—she just laid still, fingers bent and digging, like claws—while the rest of her body seized tight with stiff confusion, uncertain and unbelieving and unsure. For a moment—  
  
Frozen.  
  
And then her breaths shuddered to life, like little tiny hiccups of air, small gasps with brows creasing and lips parting with understanding, and then Elsa slowly retracted the press of her nails from his arm—just a little, then altogether. Her palms pressed flat against the covers at her sides and Elsa's head sank into the softness of her feather-down, neck craned back with the force of her chin jutting up, trying to bury the weight of her skull into the pillow at her crown.  
  
And breathe.

( _And where  
was  
  
the  
  
black  
  
  
  
sand?) _

  
“ _Elsa_ ,” Jack echoed, hand still hovering at her shoulder. He was bent forward, staring hard at the underside of her jaw, at the way she stared too hard at the ceiling and did nothing but breathe. “ _Elsa, it's okay—you're awake_ ,” he whispered, then, “ _It's over_.”  
  
A tiny breath escaped her—this one, devoid of ice or frost or chill—and then her breathing deepened, air flowing more smoothly into her lungs, and another breath pushed past her lips, stuttered and muted like—like a laugh.  
  
And then a sigh, and Jack could not take the not knowing any longer, and leaned forward into her space, trying look at her awkwardly-angled face. Her chin dropped toward her chest and suddenly Jack was very much face-to-face with her in a way he hadn't been in days, and for a moment he only stared at the exhaustion lined beneath her eyes. This was unacceptable.  
  
Even if this wasn't Pitch—even if this, this was—some sort of natural nightmare, or something, something outside of Pitch's direct control— _it had to be_ —it was still within his reach, wasn't it?  
  
Wasn't it?  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” Elsa mumbled, still caught between her fading alarm and her drifting, uneasy waking. There was a foot between them, maybe. No more. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Elsa, what's wrong?” he demanded, tumbling over her words. He peered down at her, unabashed, tired of waiting and not asking and being polite and inobtrusive and all the other things that patient Guardians were supposed to be. Fuck that.  
  
“Did I—did I fall asleep here?” she asked, fingers gripping tight to the thick comforter beneath her palms.  
  
“No—I, I moved you. After you fell asleep,” and she didn't—couldn't—hear the apology in his voice, the _I acted miserably and there's no excuse,_ not when she was still so dazed and he was still so fucking terrible at apologies. “You—I didn't want to leave you at the window, again.”  
  
She was still in her heavy velvet day dress, and her hair was still coiled neatly in its bun—or at least, it had been, until her thrashing had begun. Jack swallowed hard.  
  
Elsa moved at the same time that his hovering hand shifted, a simple accident that pressed his palm onto the curve of her shoulder—or maybe the other way around, Jack didn't know—but her whole body retreated, so quick that he barely noticed the feel of velvet at all, and then she sank herself into the feathery down like an anchor in the bay's shallows, heavy and deep and distant. Jack watched, wide-eyed, as she carefully clasped her hands over her stomach upon the blankets, and stared pointedly at the underside of the canopy, ignoring him. Breathing. Calming herself down.  
  
 _Don't feel_.  
  
“Elsa, what's wrong?” Jack demanded again, with a bite that he hadn't realized he'd been harboring.  
  
Her sigh, too, had an edge to it, one that Jack didn't understand. Was he not _supposed_ to be worried? How long had she been having nightmares for? He couldn't—couldn't even _remember_ the last time he'd known that she was having any, and that— _this_ was not okay.  
  
“It was just a dream,” Elsa replied, with a flatness that did little to soothe his nerves; he was _worried_ about her—the least she could do was try to hold back the dryness, couldn't she? He almost said so. He _might_ have said so—had his behavior from earlier that day come back to the forefront of his shameful, stupid memory.  
  
“Well, are you okay?” he asked, because he couldn't say, _Because it was fucking terrifying,_ or:  
  
 _You sounded like you were dying._  
  
Jack frowned. It'd only been a few moments, but he remembered them: the tiny breaths, muffled by a decade of forcing herself to keep quiet— _even in sleep_ —and the way her head tossed and turned, like she was fighting something in her mind, but didn't know how.  
  
Her hair fell into her face—her bangs, they were growing too long—and just like he'd done so easily the evening before, Jack's hand reached out of its own accord and moved to sweep the strands away—until Elsa's head jerked, to the side, and she shifted away, tossing the hair back where it belonged on her own.  
  
His hand stilled, stiff and surprised, and something sharp cut its way up into his lungs. She kept looking at the ceiling, unblinking and unmoving, save for the carefully controlled breaths giving rise and fall to her chest, the little puffs of frostless air that lingered in the space around them.  
  
 _What the fuck_ , he thought, and, _What did I do wrong?  
  
_ Had he misinterpreted the rules? Was it only okay to comfort her like this when _she_ was okay? ( _Is she not okay?_ he thought, terrified.) He kept wanting to help, but she only kept pulling away, and he didn't fucking understand it. He thought they were _past_ this.  
  
Why didn't she tell him she was having nightmares?  
  
“Elsa, this is important,” Jack insisted. “I can't tell you why, but—but nightmares can _mean_ something, okay? If you're having them, then—then you should tell me.” Something like guilt crawled into his stomach, and he backtracked. “I mean—you don't have to _tell_ me what happens in them. Okay? That's—that's for you to share with whoever. Or no one. But,” Jack forged on, feeling queasier than ever, “You gotta tell me if something's wrong.”  
  
(Sandy would tell him if something was seriously wrong, wouldn't he?  
  
Wouldn't he?)  
  
Elsa said nothing. Her breaths became long and labored, deep and shuddering. He could hear the uselessness in them like the ticks on a clock. Like a knife, raking down his spine.  
  
“Elsa— _god_ , are you okay?”  
  
She hesitated, which was answer enough, but then her head shook from side to gentle side, and she pressed herself down, deeper into the pillows with another exhausted sigh. She released her shaky fingers, only to clasp them loosely over her stomach once more. Jack watched, stricken.  
  
“Do you need anything?” he whispered, borderline desperate.  
  
A moment passed, and then Elsa's face shifted towards his. Curious.  
  
Skeptical.  
  
“I thought you were upset with me,” Elsa whispered quietly.  
  
 _I was,_ Jack frowned, horribly.  
  
“I was being an idiot,” he revealed, breaking the silence with a gentle scoff. “And selfish.” But even that didn't matter now, not when she was obviously—  
  
“You were upset.”  
  
“Yeah, but not with you,” Jack corrected fiercely, staring hard at the angles of her face. Moonlight cut into them, shadows and valleys and shapes, and it took Jack a moment to fully realize that she'd turned her head toward him, and was looking him in the eye. He started, but only slightly.  
  
She regarded him quietly, an unreadable expression on her calm, tired face. “What were you upset about?” she asked him.  
  
Jack blanched, overcome by his own foolishness.  
  
This was not going to be easy to say.  
  
“It was stupid,” he fiercely declared, chest surging with shame. His lips curled with it, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing, but then he stretched out the muscles in his face, slipped his Guardian mask back into place. Unhinged his jaw from where it'd locked. “It was unfair of me, and I'm sorry, and I... I don't think I... _realized_ , before, what it'd mean,” he swallowed, “that you were leaving.”  
  
Elsa waited, listening.  
  
“I don't think I realized until today what it means that you're actually leaving in two days,” he admitted, then felt horrendously unsatisfied by the weakness of his words.  
  
Upon the soft pillow, Elsa's head cocked to the side, ever-so-slightly. Quietly, thoughtfully, she asked, “What it would... mean for _me_?”  
  
“No,” he whispered thoughtfully. “No, I knew that. In _theory_ ,” he added, a bit too quickly—too grudgingly. “I, I knew how important it is... more than the ball could have ever been, anyway. I just... I don't think I realized, until today, what it meant for... well. For.”  
  
Elsa watched him, and as he watched her, Jack saw her eyes show the first sign of light since she'd torn herself away from whatever it was that had had her breaking in her sleep.  
  
He got lost in them, for a moment, and by the time he had started to pull himself back out, Elsa had tilted her head to the side, and finished with a dawning, “For you.”  
  
Jack's jaw tightened.  
  
“Yeah,” he whispered, as tension rolled deep within his shoulders. (Fucking Grade-A Guardian, _right here_.) “For me, I guess,” he mumbled, but even then, it didn't seem to cover it. “But more like—for _us._ For—you know. The rest of it.”

( _Your life_.)

“What do you mean?”  
  
God. This was—this was a conversation he didn't want to have yet. Not until later.  
  
Never.  
  
“That... now that you'll be more immersed in your responsibilities,” Jack began awkwardly, trying not to fidget. She could always tell how he was feeling, when he fidgeted. He resisted the urge to put his hand on her hands. “You're gonna be busier. You...” _Won't have time for me, anymore_. Jack pushed through the tightness worming its way into his throat, and managed, “It will be harder to visit you.”  
  
Jack tried to picture it, the way he knew Elsa was doing right at that very moment. Some day, in the not-too-distant future, when Jack would swoop down into the crowded throne room and give a little wave; Elsa would see him across the grand hall and maybe, if he was lucky, offer back a little smile— _but only if the advisors wouldn't notice, or if it wouldn't be insensitive to the claims her loyal subjects were laying before her feet_ —and then her gaze would shift away, back to her life, her duties, her royal, human obligations. He could see it, terrifyingly clear, the way he'd throw his shoulders back in resilient pride— _mature resignation_ —and happy determination— _wretched denial_ —and then he'd throw up a salute to a crowd who couldn't see, and the only reason he'd know that she'd seen it at all through the hoards of people would be in the tiniest quirk of her lips as she spoke kindly to people before her, the tiniest mark of his presence, his influence—his existence.  
  
( _An inconvenience_ , something whispered, but Jack shrugged it off.)  
  
“I wasn't, uh, really letting myself think about those things,” Jack pushed in suddenly, scratching awkwardly at his temple. God. “I mostly, just... tried to think about all the good stuff that would come of it—and there's a lot,” he remembered to say, suddenly, and hoped it didn't sound too ingenuine. (Because it wasn't. Mostly.) He was trying to explain himself—not make her feel _guilty_ , for chrissake. “Like, you'll be able to have your voice in court now, and talk with other leaders about important things.” _And Anna_ , he thought, stomach churning. _You'll have Anna_.  
  
 _Say it,_ a voice urged, as Jack's chest constricted. _Say Anna._ “But I, uh... I just... I wasn't thinking about...”  
  
 _Anna_.  
  
Jack's eyes crossed, and he needed a breath.  
  
“All of it,” he mumbled, blinking hard— _mind emptying_ —and then, “I guess.”  
  
Elsa was staring up at him with a haunting sort of curiosity, and the most endearing tilt to her brow. Something deep inside Jack clenched—and fell apart, exhausted.  
  
“Things... don't have to be _so_ different, do they?” Elsa asked hesitatingly. Her fingers played lightly over the flat of her stomach, and she looked down at them from the softness of her pillow. Jack's face fell, slightly, without her watchful eyes. Her gaze traveled back up to the ceiling, and she whispered, “Not the good things.”  
  
Something washed over him, relief and resignation all at once, and his mouth opened, words bit back at the tip of his tongue—  
  
( _There are things that_ need _to be changed_ , whispered a voice.)  
  
And for once, Jack listened.  
  
“As... long as the not-so-good things do,” Jack decided, then contemplated that. Stared at the wall above the headboard, thinking of the way that the color never faded, no matter how much sunlight streamed through the window. ( _And was it really sunshine, if you weren't outside to enjoy it?  
  
To live in it?)  
  
_ “The _right_ way,” Jack amended, pointedly. “As long as you get to see your own country, and prove yourself as Queen, and you—you go to lots of parties and stuff. And you meet people. Lots of them.”  
  
Elsa stayed conspicuously quiet. He had an argument specifically prepared for this, too, for the next time when Elsa tried to insist that she didn't need other people. That she was fine on her own. He didn't _care_ what she said; she needed people, too.  
  
And not—not the way _Anna_ might, although it was a very fine line of distinction to draw. Anna wanted to be a part of the world so, _so_ badly, and she wanted all of the romantic, glorified pieces of light that came with it—the romance and the sunshine, and friendship that she so dearly lacked inside the castle walls. She wanted the loudness of large groups of people and the sight of bright sails docking into harbor, the awkward pauses between new acquaintances in conversation—so she could break them.  
  
Elsa, at some point, had convinced herself that she didn't need any of that.  
  
And _maybe—_ maybe she didn't. Maybe she wasn't actually the kind of person who liked large crowds or big noises, as foreign and unfamiliar as such a thing was to Jack. ( _Jackson_ , whispered a voice. _To Jackson Overland,_ because _he,_ that boy, hadn't known true isolation and loneliness.  
  
 _Not yet_.)  
  
Whatever. Fine. Maybe he and Elsa were different in that regard, and would have been, no matter how she was brought up to believe, but that was the _thing_ , wasn't it, because _was_ that the way Elsa truly was, inherently?  
  
Or had living as a prisoner for eleven years done that to her, instead?  
  
Elsa appreciated the quiet things, and yeah, that was great—and valuable, and respectable, even—but how much of that was _Elsa_ talking and how much of it was her glorified imprisonment? ( _Her father?_ )  
  
Her magic?  
  
But Jack didn't really get much of an opportunity to put his rationale to good use; Elsa said nothing—only stared at the canopy in elegant thought, absently playing with the nails at her fingertips, the same ones she'd dug out of his sleeve just minutes before. It hardly felt like a show of agreement.  
  
“Elsa, you're—you're my best friend,” he rushed out, suddenly, because this was the first time he'd ever said it, out loud, to anybody. “And this is the best thing for you,” he declared, stoutly, determinedly, “And I'm going to try to stop being a huge dick about it.”  
  
Oh, fuck.

( _Please—  
  
Please, please, please, please let her not know what that word means.  
Please let her  
never  
  
know what that word means._ )

Elsa looked amused, and a little surprised, and a little sad; the kind of look she might give him if she didn't really understand his weird, modern mannerisms, but got his message clear enough and, for that—Jack was undyingly grateful.  
  
“I'm sorry that you will not be coming with me,” is what she said to him, soft and genuine. She was apologetic, but there was no hidden invitation in her words. Jack knew this—had known it for weeks, with each and every insistence on his end that _no,_ he would not be joining her—but it still hurt, in a way. The vision of her embarking on a grand adventure, even if only however many leagues away... it was no great distance, compared to the journey he took each and every time to reach her castle, but still—it hurt.  
  
“Eh,” Jack shrugged, a bold and blatant lie—for the both of them. “I don't know. Bunny hasn't been harassed nearly as much as he should be at this point in the year. I can keep myself occupied for a few days.” _One week_.  
  
Seven-and-a-half days.  
  
 _This is ridiculous_ , Jack thought, even as his eyes got that suspicious burning feeling once again. They'd spent weeks apart before, not even all that long ago—why was this so different?  
  
( _Because it's_ her _choice_ , offered a nasty voice in the back of his mind. _It's not so fun anymore, when you're not the one calling the shots.  
  
You're no longer the only one who decides when it's time to leave._ )

He felt sick,  
suddenly.

( _Looks like Elsa's not the only control freak._ )  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“I, uh,” Jack muttered, _hypocrite—fraud_ . “I...” ( _Liar_. _Sneak_.  
  
 _Guardian_.)  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
“I—I ain't gonna sit around and listen to Sideburns all day,” is what he said, and the storm in his head quieted, as quickly and as fiercely as it'd arrived. He cleared his throat, and tried to breathe again, to pretend like the world was all right.  
  
But then Elsa's gaze slanted curiously towards his. Crap. He hadn't let his accent slip up that much since the eighteenth century. (He was _educated_ , he reminded himself. He wasn't the ignorant, birdbrained colonial kid Bunny would have liked to believe he was.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He hoped Tooth wouldn't take offense to that.)  
  
“Is he truly so deplorable to you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Elsa frowned. “Henrik,” she clarified, which only made it more horrible. “Is it really that difficult for you to approve of him?”  
  
Maybe.  
  
“I'm just—not into all that royal pomp, or whatever,” Jack replied dully, then, unapologetically, “You're gonna have to forgive me.”  
  
Elsa considered this, which was strange since, well, he hadn't really meant to say any of that out loud. Like—it didn't matter whether or not Jack approved of him— _because he was a biased asshole_ . Jack. Not Henrik. (Maybe Henrik.) And what was his deal with pointing out how royal Henrik was all of a sudden? He'd always been a Prince. It wasn't anyone else's fault that Jack just kept forgetting that for no apparent reason. And why the hell should Elsa forgive Jack for any of his stupid nonsense, ever?  
  
“Are you going to be all right?” Elsa asked, very carefully. He knew what she was asking. _Will you be all right while I'm gone?_ His stomach flipped, quick and certain, and then Jack shrugged.  
  
“I think I'll live,” he said, with a grin.

 

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It was a terrible joke.

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“Jack... why do you smell like seaweed?”  
  
He frowned, then forced himself not stare down at his sweatshirt—in offense. Almost ten minutes of silence, and _this_ was how she chose to break it?  
  
“I got caught up on a dirty beach,” Jack complained, _obviously_ _offended_. Trying not to think about the pathetic way he'd curled up into the rocks and sand and cried out his anger until the high tide had threatened to drag him under. His voice almost broke when he bit out, “Cut me some _slack_.”  
  
“Caught up... or _tangled_ up?”  
  
“Oh, like you've never rolled around in a pile of seaweed before,” he spat, then regretted it, until—  
  
“And I hope I never shall.”  
  
Jack frowned, deeper. On a blind whim, he said, “I bet you wouldn't say this crap to Prince Henrik.”  
  
“Perhaps Prince Henrik does not smell so strongly of algae.”  
  
Jack's frown slipped into a scowl, fierce and burdened, and before he could retrieve his pride back up from the cold floor where it'd fallen, a tinkling laugh floated past his ears, and Jack realized that Elsa was smiling.  
  
She was pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, the way he often did when he was trying to take something in, and when her hands fell away, it was with the gust of a happy sigh, and lightness overtook him, every inch that he was.  
  
He could feel something bubbling beneath his skin.  
  
“Oh, so that's how it is, is it?” Jack whispered his complaint, but he was grinning now—a real one. Elsa let out a peculiar smile—just a bit—because she could hear the warning in his voice, the threat laced between the words, and she was already sitting up, backing further into the wall of pillows as his grin grew wider, and it was not long, of course, until the thinly-veiled threats came out from behind their wide-grinning teeth, and Elsa was the first to spring from the bed, day dress and all, but Jack was quick to follow and wasn't afraid of using flight to his advantage, and there was hardly any snow or ice or anything of the kind, but there was chasing and there was laughter, and in the end, nobody really won, and Elsa lost another hour of rest, but Jack figured it was okay, in the end, if she slept all the more soundly when she eventually drifted off to sleep.  
  
And she did.

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Elsa fell asleep on the floor by the fire,  
and Jack sat beside her, careful to keep his distance,  
until she reached for him.  
  
Elsa fell asleep on the floor by the fire,  
holding his hand.  
  
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At dawn,  
Jack left.

His visit to the land of golden sand  
was long overdue.

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. * * * .


	118. - shadow day -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/26/14_. Are you ready? Today I am posting three chapters, all of which total a whopping thirty-four pages of text--including what is conceivably my favorite chapter ever.
> 
> I think there's a grand total of twelve people still reading this story, so HEY, YOU FABULOUS PEOPLE: THIS IS FOR YOU.   
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Here's a short, quick, important filler to start us off.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- shadow day -_  
  
. * * * .

 

Two hours could be plenty wasteful, especially when it was spent in fruitless search of the Guardian of Dreams, so Jack was pretty put out when he eventually trudged into Bunny's Warren, and demanded to know where the hell Sandy had gone.  
  
“Are you cracked?” Bunnymund stared at him, still chipping away at a new giant rock creature with a chisel. A blue gleam of magic winded its way through the etchings, lacing the patterned veins with light and power and life—and instructions. It promptly joined a row of new ones at the opposite end of the clearing on wobbly legs, just as Bunny raised his chisel to start on the next boulder-thing. “There's a New Moon in less than a week and you think Sandy has time for a _pop_ -in?”  
  
“It's about Elsa,” Jack declared, crossing his arms, and the bead of satisfaction in his chest at the startled look on Bunny's face wasn't so much a bead as it was a _boulder,_ but then Jack gravely added, “She's having nightmares,” and Bunny scoffed, rolled his eyes, and rudely dismissed him.  
  
“If Pitch were messing with her, Sandy would be there in a bloody heartbeat,” Bunny brushed off, maybe a little offended on Sandy's behalf. Whatever—Jack didn't know what to think. “Trust me,” Bunny grumbled, chipping away. “It ain't black sand.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it sure doesn't seem like _gold_ sand, either,” Jack snapped.  
  
Bunny didn't so much as pause as he slowed down; first, the chisel fell away, then lowered to the grass, and then Bunny's mighty paws brushed themselves across his thighs, removing the flecks of stone and dust and sand. Jack struggled to hold onto his anger.  
  
“Kid,” he began, and the word felt like a sigh. “I know you're worried. That's your job.” It was a lot harder to hold Bunny's serious gaze than he thought it might be, because even amidst all the frustration and the confusion, it—felt like Bunny was giving him a compliment? Maybe? “But you've gotta understand—Sandy has a job, too. And he's very good at it.”  
  
“I know. I'm not saying that—”  
  
“Yeah, but aren't you?” Bunny challenged, and the tilt to his brow made it sort of difficult for Jack to argue. “Elsa's your first assignment, so it may be hard to get used to, especially with the Summit on the morrow and the New Moon not more than a lick away from that, but in order for this shit to work, you've got to _trust_ Sandy to tell you when shit's hit the fan, all right?”  
  
That's not—  
  
Jack stopped himself, surprised.  
  
“Tooth... told me that once,” he admitted reluctantly, as the Memory slowly trickled in. “I... thought I'd heard her the first time.”  
  
Bunny hesitated, then scoffed. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “It wouldn't be the first time that something's needed another go before it finally settled in your thick head.”  
  
Jack didn't know what it was, but he suddenly had the strangest urge to share something—something that had been bothering him for quite a few many days.  
  
“Elsa says I should spend more time with Tooth,” he blurted, then winced.  
  
“Yeah. And?”  
  
Jack blinked down at the busy Bunny, irrationally offended by his disinterest. Didn't Bunny normally love this sort of discomforting shit, specifically because it was so riotously hilarious at Jack's expense?  
  
“No,” Jack tried to clarify, “I mean... she says I should spend more _time_ with Tooth.”  
  
At last, Bunny paused.  
  
“Oh,” he said. “ _Oh_ ,” he said, with far more interest, but then Jack saw a ghost of a smirk. “Well, I told you the little snowflake was smart as a whip.”  
  
Jack recoiled at the nickname, then scowled at the phrase. “ _What_?”  
  
“Forget it. So you gonna take some decent advice for once?”  
  
Jack wanted to reply with some witty comeback, but all he could think about was the thoughtful look on Elsa's face when she'd made the suggestion.  
  
“I think she's trying to get me to stop visiting as much,” he said suddenly, voicing the fear that had felt all too real to him over the last few weeks. The thought vanished from his head a moment later, when Bunny's heavy hand popped the back of his skull.  
  
“Bloody idiot,” he grumbled. “You should try listening for once, instead of leaping to the first stupid conclusion that slips into your thick, icy skull. Did it ever occur to you that maybe Elsa has more foresight than you?”  
  
“Every day.”  
  
“Well, let's apply that bit of understanding to your situation, shall we? Here, you have a Guardian who's incredibly attached to a wonderful assignment—”  
  
“ _Wonder_ ful?”  
  
“—who is very well aware of most things long before her cold-blooded companion ever is, and with that awareness is the knowledge that she will soon be making very real strides toward putting all of his supposedly useful lessons into practice—as Queen.”  
  
Jack waited, uncomfortably. “Right.”  
  
“And let's say, just for a moment, that Elsa actually cares for this numskull of a Guardian as much as he cares for her—don't you think she would notice how easily he slips on the rest of his duties when it comes time to play a round of chess? Or to teach her how to dance?”  
  
Discomfort swelled in Jack's chest, and from it burst, “Elsa is a priority!”  
  
But Bunny stared back, unyielding—almost surprised. Quietly, he reminded Jack, “All kids are a priority, mate.”  
  
Jack didn't have anything to argue, to that.  
  
Bunny plowed right over Jack's shame. “Frost, the point is that Elsa notices just how well you _don't_ take change, and how—for someone who likes to proclaim a whole hell of a lot of laziness—you don't do well with _idle_ . She's already twelve steps ahead of you, mate,” said Bunny, weirdly fond and annoying. “As usual.”  
  
 _As usual,_ Jack repeated.  
  
“So, you're right, in a way. Elsa probably suggested that because she wants you to visit less often—because she wants you to open up your blind, huckabilly eyes and get with the wooing.”  
  
“But I don't know if I want to woo!” Jack exclaimed, feeling ridiculous. “I told you this!”  
  
“You can still hold a bloody conversation with her, can't ya?” Bunny snapped. “Moon almighty, you're as awkward as Groundhog on Shadow Day.”  
  
A well-lined defense was—maybe—already rising up, but Jack started suddenly. “Shadow Day?”  
  
Bunny deflated, his right eyebrow twitching. “Eh,” he grumbled. “I really shouldn't be ragging him like that. Pitch messed with him once for kicks, and he's never really been the same. Sort of fucking twisted that the humans made a holiday out of it.”  
  
“Sorry— _what?_ ”  
  
“Don't get distracted. You're looking for excuses not to explore shit with Tooth, and you're getting paranoid about Elsa not wanting you around. That day will come, Frost, but it ain't lookin' like it's anytime soon. Eventually, yeah—but it ain't yet. My advice?” Bunny pinned him with a look, and it was clear that it wasn't a request. He leaned down and retrieved his chisel from the ground, then got to work as he finished his spiel. “Don't question it, Frost. You keep up this 'is she tired of me yet?' shit, and my guess is, sure enough—she will be.” _Chip, chip, chip_ . “Get it together, mate.”  
  
Bunny was completely right.  
  
Which made it a lot harder to hear.  
  
“What the hell? Who are you to say something like that? You know what Elsa means to me—I have a right—and good _reason—_ to worry, or did you not notice that the eve of the Summit falls directly in line with the New fucking Moon?”  
  
“Look, Frost—all I'm saying is that maybe Elsa's onto something. And by maybe, I mean she _is_ . Turning Points are a natural part of every kid's journey, and there ain't nothing we can do to change that—no matter how much we might like to. When Elsa's Turning Point comes, and it might sure as hell be sooner than you ever thought it could be, you're gonna worry, and you're gonna wanna be irrational and protective and honestly, you're off to a great start on all the worst ways to drive yourself insane. Listen. You ever think that she might have a clearer picture of the world than you? That's because she probably does. She's not cutting you out, boy, but she is _getting_ herself out of that goddamn room.” _Chip. Chip, chip, chip_ . “She wants you to start connecting yourself back to your roots, the way you tried to do when you were first startin' out, _before_ you two got yourselves like peas in a proverbial pod. Shit knows you haven't been making many new friends,” Bunny said, and then, in a way that unsettled Jack's stomach in undeniable guilt, “Or keeping up with your old ones.”  
  
Jack frowned, deeply.  
  
North. Sandy. And Tooth.  
  
 _Jamie_.  
  
“So what should I do, then?” Jack asked, too worn out to worry about something as silly and important and as nonexistent as his pride. “About her nightmares?”  
  
 _Chip, chip_. “Talk to Sandy when he gets back from his trip South,” Bunny answered calmly, like he hadn't already just bestowed a whole string full of pearls of wisdom. “See what you can find out, ask for his advice, but know that he's got it under control. The globes have been completely devoid of black sand... If Pitch was winding his darkness anywhere near Elsa's Memories—we'd know about it.”

. * * * .

 


	119. - to blame -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/26/14_. Part two of today's three-chapter posting update! I can't wait to hear what you think. :)

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It was with Bunny's words of caution and reassurance in mind that Jack returned to Arendelle,  
his anxiety _mostly_ assuaged _._  
  
But it was with a great swell of renewed frustration  
that Jack realized, he had missed something.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

He'd been so intent on being so damn miserable the day before, that he hadn't noticed

the small mountain of fine things, packed in fine luggage,  
stacked and ready and  
  
waiting.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

  
_. * * * .  
  
(who)                                  
\- to blame -  
  
. * * * .  
_   
_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_.  
  
. * * * ._

**. D A N C I N G**.

In the corner of her room, there was a small mountain of fine things. He wondered what could be in so many bags— _parcels_ , as Olga had called them. Fancy dresses, maybe. Practical shoes. Ribbons for her hair. Books.  
  
His chest hurt, just looking at them.  
  
But he continued to look at them, all throughout the morning.  
  
Elsa was busy at work—a replica of Beijing this time, or at least part of it—and over the last few hours, Jack had spent an equal share of time alternating between watching her and staring at her luggage.  
  
And wondering.

( _At what point,  
does a Turning Point  
  
begin?_ )

 _This_ point—this Summit, and everything it entailed—everything it _signified—_ was everything that a Turning Point could ever hope to provide.  
  
So when the fuck would the eggs come?  
  
The _eggs_ , of course, referred to the brightly-colored creatures from Bunny's Warren, which Jack had magicked however many weeks ago to notify him _immediately_ upon any changes to Elsa's light on the globe. He'd been waiting for them all day—and nothing.  
  
So, like, how far in advance did the lights start to change when a special assignment entered his or her Turning Point? Jack had only ever seen the lights once they'd started shining strangely—that weird, pulsing sort of rhythm, like a slow-beating heart—but he'd never seen one _actually_ turn. Would it only start to change once the Turning Point was already happening? Was it more of like— _I don't know—_ a monitor, or something, rather than an alert signal? Could that be a thing? Was it _both_?  
  
He was sure that Bunny would alert him. (He should have asked Bunny that morning—why didn't he think of this _then?)_ Forget the eggs—at the first sign of Elsa's light changing, half the Guardians would probably show up on Elsa's doorstep. Window ledge. Chimney. Whatever.  
  
 _Or_ , Jack wondered, _is that not how it works?  
  
_ Jack traced his eyes along the rosemaling patterns detailed into the sides of the parcels in the lower-most tier of the baggage mountain, wracking his brain for Memories of what he'd seen the other Guardians do before. What _happened_ during a Turning Point? Like—really? Was it something that he and Elsa would face alone? _How_ —how much of a part would he even play? Jack frowned, letting this new turn of thoughts tide over. What did Bunny _do_ when he went to visit his assignments?  
  
From what he saw, most of Rapunzel's Turning Point was spent... watching.  
  
From afar.

( _He didn't_ want _  
to think  
about Hiccup's_.)

Jack didn't even know if Bunny used any magic. Did he just—send imaginary rays of Hope? Were the assignments supposed to do all this on their own? (Was that the _point?_ ) He knew that, ultimately— _technically_ speaking—the end goal was that the assignments learned enough from the Guardians when they were young that they could succeed later on, when the Guardians no longer existed for them.  
  
But Elsa was at the edge of her Turning Point, and she still Believed.  
  
(So what did that _mean?_ )  
  
Why had no one told him any of this yet? Was he supposed to fucking figure it out on his own?  
  
Why the fuck was there still so much that he didn't know?  
  
He wanted to race back to Bunny's and demand answers, but he was certain that Bunny would notify him if any shit was up. It was their jobs. And besides—Elsa was just as important to the rest of them. ( _“All kids are a priority, mate.”_ )  
  
He sighed.  
  
Only to be met with a slosh of snow in his face. Jack slid a glare Elsa's way, but she was already back to creating a few more twists and turns to the city's walkways, an imperceptible smirk upon her lips. She'd barely been able to contain her excitement all day.

 

( _But she had—  
contained it. _  
  
Barely, _yes_ , _but still contained,_ _because Elsa  
could keep herself  
under  
  
control._ )

  
The thought settled in Jack's stomach like a pit.  
  
Overcome by a sudden burst of restless, anxious energy flooding his limbs, Jack tumbled his way off the bed and onto the floor beside her workspace. From his spot on the ground, he could peer through an alleyway of frozen residential homes and see her magic unfold. But watching magic only ever made Jack want to do magic, too, and Jack sighed out another dreary, frustrated sigh.  
  
“You could help me, you know,” she offered, as if she were reading his mind. ( _Easily, as if last night had never happened._ ) “This is only the Central Business District.”  
  
He figured that asking her any questions would probably tip her off to the fact that he had no idea what she was talking about and since he really didn't want to do that, Jack instead huffed out an impressively casual breath of _no thanks_.  
  
( _They weren't going to talk about it._ )  
  
“Well. I suppose you could mope a bit more.”  
  
His brows pulled downward. “I am not moping,” he defended.  
  
“Yes. And I'm not at all going to miss you when I leave tomorrow.”  
  
Jack's stony gaze slanted her way, but Elsa was only smiling. She conjured some random restaurant sign out of thin air, ignoring his brooding. Jack's frown deepened. “That was a mean joke.”  
  
“It was a bluff, which you called, instantly,” Elsa evenly replied, completely unfazed. And amused. She was— _goddammit.  
  
_ Jack's mouth opened, then immediately closed. Dammit.  
  
He missed her already.

. * * * .

 

Jack may or may not have been starting to panic.  
  
Okay. Not _panic_ , per se, but like.  
  
Panic.  
  
 _Bunny just warned me about this._ The whole lot of good it did him.  
  
The air surrounding Elsa practically vibrated with anticipation, and it was making Jack even antsier than normal. He was fueled with adrenaline for no reason other than the fact that _Elsa_ was bursting with excitement and hey, Jack was already susceptible to these things enough as it was already. The fact that it was _Elsa_ made it a hundred times worse.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa said suddenly, popping—literally _popping—_ into his line of sight and sending his overworked heart into overdrive. She ignored his undignified jolt and the way he grunted as his spine reconnected with the floor and asked, “I've just thought of something I need to do.”  
  
“Jesus,” he muttered breathlessly. “Is it CPR?”  
  
“What?”  
  
 _Ugh_. “Never mind,” he nearly spat, then turned his head away. _Don't blush_ , he thought, vehemently, staring at the crack between the floor and the wall, trying not to think of what that might look like—cardiopulmonary resuscitation. _Don't blush_ , he thought, harder, as he blushed. Stupid.  
  
“Well?”  
  
Jack resisted as long as he could—and then hefted out another deep, sighing breath. “Well, what?” he grumbled, with only slightly less grump.  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know what it is?”  
  
His face shifted, ever-so-minutely, back to where she sat beside him. Above him. Right over him. Very careful not to let his jaw go slack, or his eyes twitch, or anything else do anything equally embarrassing, Jack simply raised his eyebrows high in what he hoped was an intriguing, questioning manner; this sort of thing was not typically in his skill sets. (A drunken-night Memory suddenly flooded back to him, in which North and Bunny dueled for the honorable title of _Eyebrow Game_. He had to help wipe Sandy up off the floor later, and he'd never quite found out who actually won.)  
  
Elsa was still waiting.  
  
“Er,” Jack responded. “Know what?”  
  
A smile spread across her face— _slowly, like the winter dawn_ —and then his shoulder was being cranked from its socket as she gripped his hand and yanked him forward.  
  
“I can't stand it any longer!” Elsa breathed, more of a laugh than actual words, as Jack stumbled awkwardly to his feet. His limbs felt ganglier than ever. “If I sit another minute, I'll— _I'll_ —oh, I don't know.”  
  
“Go insane?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Elsa bit back slyly, a strange look in her eye, and it occurred to him that he still had no idea why they were standing.  
  
“Why are we standing?”  
  
“Jack,” she smiled, holding onto his wrists, like she was warning him not to interrupt—like he might actually know what she was talking about. “You know what I'll be doing in a few days, don't you?”  
  
“Uh... Complimenting some King's parlor?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Elsa repeated, then apparently couldn't stand the game any longer, because the twinkling in her eyes multiplied by probably five thousand, and she suggested, beaming, “This would rather be the best time to rehearse my waltz, wouldn't it?”  
  
Jack felt the color drain from his face.  
  
Well.  
  
What little color was there in the first place.  
  
“ _Ughh_ ,” he twisted, not bothering to hide his groan, not able to free his wrists from her gentle hold. “Elsa, please,” he complained, and he was not _whining_ , or begging, but. Maybe. Something close. “Not tonight.”  
  
He felt like quite the asshole, though, when her face fell. She picked it back up again almost immediately, but Jack had seen it, clear as day.  
  
Too bad he couldn't bring himself to change his mind.  
  
“You have the attention span of an elf in a bakery,” Elsa said, somewhat fondly, while Jack thought it was a rather unflattering description; he'd seen a few elves in bakeries. Not pretty.  
  
“How so?” he challenged, trying not to sound too petulant about it. A stroke of awareness hit him suddenly, in which he realized that he was acting really, really _weird_. He shifted slightly, hopefully unnoticed, and crossed his arms for good measure. There.  
  
Elsa was already flitting away toward the windowsill—Elsa didn't _flit—_ and picking up a book from the small stack left on the floor. ( _He didn't think about the moment when she'd put them down the night before—the moment that he hadn't seen, too busy with his misery, with his glaring at the ceiling. He didn't think about it. He didn't think about it._ ) Instead, he merely watched as Elsa pointedly sat upon the window seat, let her heavy skirts pool about her ankles, and deliberately picked up a book to read. Her eyes glanced up at him from under tilted brows.  
  
“There was a time not too long ago, Jack Frost, when you were perfectly content to do nothing _but_ dance,” she reminded him, a tad loftily. “And yet, for some reason, these days you seem more put off by the idea than ever.”  
  
A sudden flash of Memory, too quick to think through, in which Elsa stepped into his space, and set his hand upon her waist. ( _The way she retreated from his touch when he'd reached for her, the way she held herself at arm's length, distant and instinctive and thoughtless_.)  
  
And then it was _gone_ —a quick shake of the head, a nice side-helping of reality.  
  
“You already know how to dance,” he reasonably replied, trying not to reveal his lingering hurt. “You're a great dancer. You don't need any more practice.”  
  
She stared at him dryly from behind the bend in her knees, an open book in her lap, and Jack got the nagging impression that _practice_ might not have actually been her reason for wanting to.

  
. * * * .

“I'd like to try something,” Elsa said clearly, and sat herself at the stool at her vanity. Her voice was rather bright, for a statement so vague. “Will you help me?”  
  
“It's not dancing, is it?”  
  
She did not find that funny.  
  
“All right,” she breezily replied, and was already starting to arrange her brushes and combs and pins from the many drawers. Jack leapt to his feet with a quick call of wind, and strode closer to her station, trying his hardest to look bored. (The vanity was never a good sign.) But Elsa wasn't having any of it. “Be difficult, if you must. Just try not to make any sudden movements, and let me concentrate.”  
  
“ _Ugh_ , Elsa,” he whined—and then was struck, suddenly, by a disorienting Memory of when Elsa was eight-years-old— _in that very same spot_ —and Jack had to blink, a few times— _she was so little—_ to reground himself in the present. Elsa was looking at him, impatient and expectant and simply unsurprised by his complaining, unknowing of the way Jack's world had just been tipped on its axis, and when Jack spoke on, he did so around the thick wad his tongue had become. “That always—it takes forever.”  
  
“If that is your argument, Jack Frost, then I am wholly unimpressed,” Elsa said slyly, then spun back towards the mirror and began picking through her supplies. Tools. Utensils? Jack blinked, again, clearing his mind. “I asked you if you would help, remember.”  
  
“Yeah, but I don't know _why_.”  
  
She didn't bother to dignify that with a response. Instead, Elsa moved swift, bare hands to the twist at the base of her skull, and quickly got to work. It'd been over a year since he'd seen her hair loose about her shoulders.  
  
“Have you changed your mind?”  
  
Jack blinked into the reflection within the mirror, recognizing for the first time that Elsa was watching him back. He'd been staring.  
  
His face pinched, in reluctant consideration and, unavoidably, embarrassment. “Not yet,” he muttered doubtfully, crossing his arms. His bare feet didn't move.  
  
“At least help me brush it?” she offered, reaching back with a familiar hairbrush. “You don't have to do any of the difficult stuff.”  
  
 _It's not that difficult_ , Jack's pride wanted to say; he strode forward with a begrudging sigh, fingers twitching with anticipation, biting his tongue. The brush was a comfortable weight in his hand.  
  
The strokes were familiar, and the softness was just as fascinating as ever. So were the little waves left behind by her braid. Or the way certain pieces were slightly darker or lighter than others. Like her hair was actually more than just one color. ( _“In my dreams when I am born without magic, my hair is no longer white_. _”_ )  
  
“You're awfully quiet today,” Elsa said softly, and Jack's eyes gently flicked to meet hers in the mirror. Her face was a guarded mask, but her eyes were easily read, open and curious and concerned. A small huff of laughter escaped him, and the stroke that he'd paused midway resumed, strands slipping through the bristles in his hand like silk.  
  
He'd been awfully quiet this _year_.  
  
And maybe even the year before that.  
  
“Just... trying to imagine what it's like to have all this extra weight on your head,” Jack offered lamely, then added an impressively casual smirk. The muscles there—in his jaw, near his lips—felt strained from disuse. (How often had he smiled, lately? When was the last time he laughed, uncontrollably?  
  
Where did Jack Frost go?)  
  
“Do you have any plans for the day, tomorrow?” she asked, and when Jack came to realize what she'd said, he got the impression that she was asking more to keep him talking, rather than because she suspected that he actually had any idea.  
  
“Dunno,” he mumbled, watching carefully as the brush trailed its way down to the very end so her hair. He was taking his time, but Elsa didn't seem to mind. “Probably piss off Pavel, actually.”  
  
 _“Jack.”_  
  
“What? You'll get to hear the story, later.”  
  
It was quiet for a little while, after that, and Jack's thoughts were strangely much the same. He was absorbed in the simple, calming act of brushing her hair. _Damn Elsa_ , he thought, as a tiny smile worked its way onto his face. She'd probably planned that all along.  
  
“Will you see me to the docks?”  
  
Jack paused, taken off guard by the question.  
  
“I... Would you like me to?” he asked, because he hadn't really thought about it. Had purposefully, _intentionally_ not thought about it at all.

 

( _Maybe it was better,  
that he'd died the way he had.  
  
No need for goodbyes_.)

 

Jack shook his head, subtly, reminding himself that this—this was not goodbye.  
  
It wasn't.  
  
“I... am not sure,” Elsa answered slowly, and Jack's hand slipped. Elsa winced as the brush accidentally caught on a single tangle, and Jack's muttered apology was lost to, “If I were to have it my way, I may very well ask you to accompany me all the way to the Isles, which... wouldn't be very much fun for you, I'm afraid.”  
  
 _I don't care_ , he thought, and said, “That's all right. I'll just see you off at the docks, then. Or, like—I don't know. Maybe tomorrow morning, during breakfast. Whatever works, you know—to make you less nervous.”  
  
Elsa hummed, thoughtfully, and Jack was suddenly out of things to say. He brushed her hair carefully, not bothering to mention that the tangles were all gone.  
  
“Rapunzel will be there,” Elsa said quietly. “And her Flynn Rider, which Henrik says is causing quite a stir. Henrik has met him though, and says he is a decent fellow, even if he quite visibly feels out of place amongst the members of the court. Though,” Elsa added more quietly, “I suppose the same might be said for Rapunzel.”  
  
Jack said nothing, but listened attentively, ignoring the unfamiliar curl of jealousy crawling through his gut. To distract himself, Jack placed his other hand under the comforting weight of Elsa's hair, and pulled the brush through many times more, thoughtlessly.  
  
“Is he in court often, then?” he asked at length, after Elsa had spoken in greater detail of the ways in which Eugene had both endeared himself to the court and offended them in equal measure. Elsa's gleeful daze flickered at the sound of Jack's voice, and he almost regretted breaking her train of thought.  
  
“Not as much as people might have once assumed he'd be,” Elsa answered. “He's still spending a great deal of time in the countryside, working by support of the King to connect with Corona's orphanages. The King was quite skeptical of him, at first,” Elsa continued thoughtfully. “But I think that his unwavering commitment to both the crown—or rather, _Rapunzel_ , namely—and the children of his country have helped smooth the rough edges through which many high-brow courtiers might have once viewed him.”  
  
Jack frowned, unsure as to why this should-be-comforting piece of news settled so wrongly. Casually, Jack tried not to mutter, “So... Flynn works with kids, eh?”  
  
Strangely, Elsa smiled—like she got something that he didn't understand. Something funny.  
  
“Yes,” she answered quietly, staring back at his gaze through the mirror.  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“I wonder if I will be the same,” Elsa mused quietly, a few moments later, and her sudden bout of nervousness was invisible—to anyone but him.  
  
To him, it was nearly tangible.  
  
Jack looked up, alarmed. “Same as what?”  
  
“As Rapunzel and Eugene,” she clarified, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. “Finally amongst my people, and... lost. Out of place.”  
  
Jack's fingers tightened ever so slightly around the soft strands of her hair. If he accidentally tugged on them, then it wasn't his fault. “What are you talking about? You were a hit at the ball. The whole room was like, completely in love with you.”  
  
 _Yo_ , that was—that was totally not supposed to make Elsa blush. Oh, god. _Oh, god_ , Bunny was right—he was as awkward as the fucking Groundhog. He should just like, bury himself in a hole and—  
  
“That was over a year ago,” Elsa quietly pointed out, and her nervousness was more apparent than ever. “It is not so imprudent to assume that people may have forgotten, is it? And this will be different—that was a celebration, an _introduction,_ whereas this—this will constitute my first official acts and contributions as Princess of Arendelle. The mark I leave upon the Isles will be so much different—so much grander—than what was allowed of me at year or so ago.”  
  
Jack stared down at the strands of blonde between his fingertips. (Was it okay, to brush hair this much?) Once again, Jack Frost had nothing useful to say.  
  
“People will love you,” he said, instead, because it was what came easiest. “Trust me,” he said, thinking of North and Sandy and Tooth and Bunny. “It's hard not to—a lot harder than you think.”  
  
Elsa did not seem very comforted by this.

. * * * .

It was only a few minutes later when Jack suddenly stepped back.  
  
He shouldn't be touching her hair.  
  
This wasn't quite like it was a little more than a year ago; the night of the ball, when Elsa needed his help; a show of trust, and curiosity, and support in a dire situation.  
  
He was a little too interested.  
  
In the weight and feel of it, and the scent it left in the air, or the warmth of Elsa's skin not far from his fingers, and it was not long until Jack's mind inevitably began to wander. ( _What would it feel like_ , he wondered, to trail his fingers along her shoulder?)  
  
“All done,” he said abruptly, setting the brush onto the wooden vanity with an awkward clack. Surprised, Elsa straightened in her seat, pulled from depths of whatever ocean of thought she'd been so calmly swimming in. Jack resisted the urge to wipe his palms on the stretch of his pants, like he might have once done out of old, nervous habit.  
  
( _Old,_ whispered a voice, small and distant and deafeningly loud.)  
  
“You can finish whatever it is that you're trying to do now,” he told her, in a fake-casual voice that was convincing enough to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. She watched through the mirror as he stepped back with a shrug, regarding his easy smile with questioning grace, but then her hands moved to the nape of her neck, and Jack had already turned away.  
  
It felt safer, to stand across the room.  
  
He made a show of looking out the window—searching for a cloud on a cloudless day—and placed a palm flat against the windowpane. Instead of smudges, he left crystals and lace, shining in the summer sun. His eyes trailed over the crisp white frost, the stark contrast of its existence against the bright blue of the sky, and let the fractals twist his thoughts into a comforting blankness, easy and simple.  
  
It'd gotten easier—whatever that meant—to not feel as bad about this sort of thing; it was a lot easier to let these thoughts go, Jack had realized, when he allowed them to come in the first place. It didn't make him any less of a Guardian, as long as he kept himself in check, and it didn't make him any more of a Guardian, either.  
  
But it did make him feel human.  
  
So Jack stared at the pretty patterns on the glass, and continued to watch them as they melted away in the sunshine, as gentle streams of water slipped down into the cracks at the window's ledge. He let his mind wash into familiar landscapes of snowy mountains and frozen forests, let himself remember that he was in Arendelle—in Elsa's room—and that when he turned around, it would be okay.  
  
He wouldn't let her see what was going on inside his head.  
  
Eventually, he made his way closer to the vanity, but this time chose to perch himself atop one tidy corner of her desk. He painted on his best face of tolerant boredom, and perhaps sighed once or twice for show, and when Elsa glanced his way in subtle irritation, his grin only widened all the more easily. Piece of lemon cake.  
  
When Elsa was finally finished, she turned her head in the mirror, this way and that, and Jack watched on, startled. Her hair was coiled at the nape of her neck once more, and expertly spun through the elegant twist was a blue satin ribbon, twined through what appeared to be a hidden braid. He'd noticed just the night before that her bangs had grown too long, but Elsa had fixed that by twisting them into a thick ridge of hair at her crown, all the way down the length of her temple and behind her ear, like... like a headband.  
  
It suited her.  
  
And when she asked him what he thought of it, he told her so.  
  
“Whatever happened to your braid?” he asked, curious. _Or the—that little black headband?_ Where had that gone?  
  
“I only ever wear one to bed,” she replied with a gentle shrug, though Jack found that hard to believe. He hadn't seen her wear a braid in ages.  
  
“You don't really still think it's childish, do you?” he asked, remembering a conversation they once had, years and years before.  
  
Elsa considered this, tilting her head to the side. A ray of sunlight caught the ribbon in her hair, and in the blonde strands, and in the thoughtful eyes Jack saw in the mirror.  
  
She looked older.  
  
“Maybe... maybe not anymore,” she frowned thoughtfully, and Jack held himself very carefully, and very still, when Elsa raised her eyes to meet his and offered a small, easy shrug. “It's just... a braid isn't typically worn with a crown.”  
  
And Jack thought, _Oh_.

. * * * .

“Will you humor me with Slapjack, at least?”  
  
Jack worked very intentionally not to twitch.  
  
“What?” Jack teased, making no move to come closer to where Elsa sat on the floor, her normal twist of hair back in place. He was rather enjoying his trail across the top of her bookshelves. It was safer, up here. “And give you any more chances to hit me? I think not.”  
  
“If that was truly my intention, distance would be no matter.”

Distance.  
  
Jack's hand rubbed absently over his collarbone, easing away the ache that resided there. A quick hop, and then he was onto the next bookshelf, slightly shorter than the other. “That's exactly the kind of thing I might expect to hear from a diplomat with a hidden agenda.”  
  
She was trying leave her expression strained, but Jack could see the amusement creeping onto her face. She should know better than to resist.  
  
“Why don't we go steal some snacks from the kitchens, or something?” Jack suggested, without really knowing why. Did he really want to leave this room, right now? Of course not. And what good did it do, really, to make a big deal of sneaking around the castle when only one of them was actually visible?  
  
God, he was being such a buzzkill.  
  
But it was hard watching Elsa just sit in the center of her rug, on the eve of her departure—the last time he would see her, or talk to her, or visit her, for a _week—_ and determinedly come up with suggestion after suggestion for something they could do together.  
  
He was failing at Fun.  
  
Dancing? (Not an option.) Slapjack? (Just like dancing.) Reading? (She couldn't sit still long enough to try.) Snowball fight? (She'd already won seven times in a row.)  
  
He really was turning out to be a bore. It was a nightmare. And what was _worse_ was that Jack couldn't even do anything about it, because all the stuff that _Elsa_ wanted to do, he _really_ didn't want to do, and all of the things he suggested (like knitting, or reading, or embroidery) just weren't working for Elsa tonight. It was nearly nightfall, and he was out of options.  
  
“When I return from the Summit, we can procure as many lemon cakes as you like,” Elsa assured him with a knowing smile. “But for tonight, I am on my best behavior.”  
  
“I'm sorry—I'm not familiar with that concept. Could you describe it to me, please? It sounds horrible.”  
  
Elsa smiled the kind that she used when she was only barely tolerating his funny business, but secretly—or not-so-secretly—sort of loved his ridiculousness anyway.  
  
“It's when I stay in my room and prove to my parents that I will _not_ be freezing over the tapestries of the Isles' palace,” Elsa teased, and then tossed her arm out—which meant that Jack was dodging a small, perfectly round snowball but a moment later.  
  
“It sounds incredibly boring,” Jack pointed out with a grin, ignoring the jumbledness of his stomach. (The guilt of prolonged failure.)  
  
“It would be less boring if you danced with me.”  
  
This was the fourth time she'd asked.  
  
“What's the rush?” Jack quipped, staff laying long over the shelf of his shoulders. He kicked out a foot as he walked along the books, trying not too look Elsa directly in the eye. “You're gonna be dancing everyday for like, a week. You're gonna get tired of it.”  
  
“ _No_ , I shall not, and if I should ever refuse a dance then I should imagine something to be sincerely wrong with me.”  
  
Jack twisted himself to look down at where Elsa sat (stubbornly) on the floor, and was not nearly as surprised as he might have expected to be when he took note of the way she crossed her arms and stared up at him expectantly. She was in a fighting mood, apparently.  
  
Or a dancing one.  
  
“Look,” Jack started, words suddenly caught in his throat. “Elsa—”  
  
“All I want,” Elsa cut him off, voice sure and even, “Is to dance with you one more time before I leave.”  
  
Jack stilled.  
  
“When I go the Isles', everyone will be watching,” Elsa explained, and her words did not lose strength, even if her tone grew softer. She was still sitting on the floor, eight feet below him, but she may as well have been staring him in the face. His breath froze in his throat, running dry and useless in his mouth. “People are going to be expecting great things from me, at all times.”  
  
“But you already—”  
  
“It's not about practice,” Elsa corrected firmly. “Or confidence... I love to dance, and I've come to learn it rather easily, but what I want to remember while I am alone in an unfamiliar ballroom with hundreds of strangers, judged by Kings and Queens and townspeople alike, that I first learned to dance in this room, with you.”  
  
 _Then stay._  
  
Jack scoffed loudly, nearly choking on the very thought, and Elsa looked reasonably offended by the reaction; quickly backtracking, Jack shook his head, dismissing his own stupid carelessness, and stepped forward into the air, climbing down an invisible set of stairs onto the rug.  
  
“This... isn't just about dancing,” Jack carefully lowered himself to the floor. His staff rested behind him on the hardwood, silently. “Is it?”  
  
Elsa waited a moment, then answered. “It is and it isn't,” she said softly, and Jack couldn't help but scoot closer, not when she got that look in her eye and that tone in her voice, like she did when she was ten-years-old. She looked at him then, and his heart caved in, quick and hard, and then swelled all it once, so full it could burst, because in that moment, he saw her.  
  
The little girl he used to know.  
  
“Jack, I am _terrified_ of what tomorrow brings, but—I couldn't be happier about it, all the same,” she told him, small and strong and torn and relieved and everything that they'd been waiting for. Feeling filled him up, every inch of him, and Jack—he _felt_ it, the worry and the gratitude and the mourning and the pride, like he had rarely allowed himself to ever feel before.  
  
“It's okay,” he said, and even if the words were inadequate, at least he was _there_ , and his tone might only convey half of what he felt in that moment, but it might—if he were lucky—be enough.  
  
Elsa's eyes were glistening, but he didn't realize it right away, because she kept turning her gaze to the floor. He watched when her eyes traced patterns over the bindings at his shins, over the smooth lines and folds of fabric in the hem of her dress. She smiled at his knees, and Jack struggled for something to say, something more comforting and eloquent than his stupid platitudes, but then Jack saw a flash of teeth—an open-mouthed smile, small and tentative, but open all the same, like Jack had never seen before. A pang tore through him, deep and hollow.  
  
She was beautiful.  
  
“Sometimes,” Elsa said quietly, staring at the space between their feet, oblivious to the confusing ache in Jack's chest, “Sometimes all I can think about is how painfully nervous I was while I was waiting for the ball... and even the year leading up to it, and how—and how every time I felt lost, or overwhelmed, you were there,” Elsa's voice trailed into a whisper, soft and dizzying. “And you danced with me.”  
  
 _It's my job_ , Jack thought immediately, which was stupid, which was such a stupid thing to think, because Elsa meant so much more to him than just his Guardian duties, and he was _proud_ of that, so why the hell would he try to brush something like this off?

( _Because you're not used to people appreciating you,  
_ whispered a voice, neither judging nor supportive.  
  
Just fact, plain and simple.)

  
Because, even after almost fifteen years, Jack Frost wasn't used to being needed.

“Jack?”  
  
“I... I think I get it,” he managed, feeling winded and unstable. His eyes itched, but he wouldn't dare reach his sleeve to his face to rub at them.  
  
When Jack looked up, Elsa was watching him, which was startling, because he'd expected her to still be staring at the floor. He felt exposed, suddenly, and maybe, a little afraid.  
  
Elsa seemed to see it, too.  
  
Her eyes trailed over the frost at his collar, in wide-sweeping arcs and tangling tendrils, and said, “We don't have to dance. We can just rest here, if that's all right with you.”  
  
 _Anything,_ is what Jack thought, in the same moment that he demanded, _Wait—  
  
_ “Why not?”  
  
Elsa looked at him, and Jack blanched at his own contrariety, his _defensiveness_ , and then even more so when he registered just how very little surprise there was in her eyes.  
  
“Because... maybe it's not as much about dancing as I'd thought,” she whispered.  
  
Jack stared back, confused, heart pounding, so loud he was _certain_ she could hear it—  
  
And then Elsa turned, and Jack's heart dropped into his stomach, until he realized that he could hear it, too.  
  
A knock, sounding at the door.

. * * * .  


Jack watched in silence as Elsa straightened her dress and fixed her hair. Through the frame of the mirror, Jack watched as Elsa transformed herself into the Princess of Arendelle; until this moment, he hadn't realized just how separate the two identities were in his mind.  
  
The Princess stood a little taller, and held her chin just a fraction higher. Her shoulders were stiff instead of shrugging with laughter, and her spine was curved in an elegant line, instead of bent with the concentration of her work. Elsa was wit and smiles and—though she might not admit it— _song._ The Princess...  
  
She was Elsa: a little more reserved, a little more regal, and all the more out of his reach.  
  
Jack watched, arms crossed and stomach knotted, as Elsa deliberated; summoned to her father's private study, Princess Elsa of Arendelle made herself presentable, and considered the pair of gloves folded neatly in her vanity's drawer.  
  
And Jack wasn't sure who to blame, when she reached inside and slowly slipped them on.

. * * * .

 


	120. - this sage -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/26/14_. The final installment of today's three-chapter posting extravaganza! This is quite honestly one of my favorite chapters out of the entire series thus far. It's a long one.  <3
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who continues to leave such wonderful comments and feedback! They always mean a lot to me, but these last few weeks have been really busy and this weekend was pretty rough, so I appreciated them more than ever. Thank you!

 

 

_. * * * .  
  
\- this sage -  
  
. * * * .  
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_.  
  
. * * * ._

_._ **T H E     K I N G**.

“I'm not sure I understand,” replied Elsa, with a lot more restraint than Jack would have had, himself.  
  
A lot more.  
  
“Well... darling,” began the Queen, softness and apologies. “It's just... you see, we've—”  
  
“Your mother and I have found a possible solution,” said the King, standing near the window in his private study, tall and regal and serious. “And we'd like you to consider it.”

  
. * * * .

This was probably the third or fourth time he'd heard it, though before, it'd just been bits and pieces; the first few unhelpful snippets had been heard when he was eavesdropping on the King and Queen in the royal study, _before_ Elsa was admitted inside—and it still wasn't sounding any better, now that it was all being put together. He'd never seen the King so tense.  
  
Jack refused to leave Elsa's side.

“According to the Trolls, there is a sage in the high North; a sorcerer who is well-versed in many forms of magic,” said the King, hushed and urgent. “They declare him to be a skilled teacher who lived amongst them for some time during the Era of Sun. They spoke highly of his trust.”  
  
“And of his costliness?” Elsa asked.  
  
“That is not a concern,” returned the King, earnestly, laying his hands flat upon his desk. Her mother stood off to the side, staring out the window.  
  
Elsa had refused a seat.  
  
“So he means to teach without payment?”  
  
“He _means_ to secure you of your powers, as a favor to the Clan of the Trolls; he owes them a great debt, and seeks to repay that.”  
  
Elsa's brows furrowed together, disbelieving and confused. “Father, trusting such a venture would be folly,” she insisted, keeping her hands clasped politely at her front. (Only a fool, Jack thought, would mistake it for demure acquiescence.) “There is no knowing what motives this man could have for entering such an agreement— _if_ such a man even exists.”  
  
“The Trolls have been our trusted allies for generations,” the King reminded her.  
  
“It is not the _Trolls_ I am finding difficult to trust.”  
  
Jack's head swiveled towards the King, who let out a sigh, tired and at a loss; his forefinger and thumb were massaging the ridge of his brow, and his eyes were locked onto the piles of books and scrolls at the corner of his desk, atop which laid a grand map of the forest... and inside it, markings of the Garden of Trolls.  
  
“Elsa,” he said quietly, looking carefully at his daughter across the room. “Arendelle has not based its prosperity upon the foundation of foolishness. Every decision is tainted with some measure of risk. You know this. And _this_ offer—from our most trusted alliance— _this_ could be a key to a door that we have not yet unlocked.” His voice was very quiet, and very sincere, but no less firm—no less direct or unyielding as before—while he considered her. “As a leader, how can you expect others to trust your abilities when you are so unwilling to place trust in your own kind?”  
  
Elsa stiffened, just slightly.  
  
“In _my_ kind?” she repeated, eyes widening. Her expression shifted a moment later, cold and masked. “Well, in truth, I'd rather hoped that the good King might vouch for me.”  
  
Her father blinked—as did _Jack_ , as did the Queen—but then his expression hardened, and Jack's heart dropped heavily into his stomach with a resounding—  
  
 _Shit_.  
  
Jack swallowed hard, and the bitter something in his mouth tasted like pride, and guilt.

(That tone had sounded awfully _familiar_.)  
  
The King lowered his chin, clear and unyielding, and with the same gentle sort of voice he might have used to scold her when she was a little girl, “That tone is unnecessary. You are a reflection of this family, whether you are amongst guests, or not.”  
  
Elsa stood tall, unmoving, and Jack bristled where he stood beside her, clenching tight to the grip of his staff, and then—

 _“Darling,_ ” the Queen stepped forward, reaching out to Elsa with her eyes, even as she placed a firm hand against the shoulder of her husband, and Jack had the thin sense to be mildly impressed. “We're only trying to help,” she reasoned, apologetic and longing, and Jack's brows rose curiously. Vaguely, he thought, _Looks like she's finally doing something for her daughter tonight, after all.  
  
_ Only Elsa didn't see it that way.  
  
“Help?” she whispered, as if tasting the word on her tongue—bitter, and cracking. “Where were you during the weeks and months that followed the announcement of the ball?” Elsa asked, voice soft and _level_ and edged with something Jack had never heard before. She stared her father in the eye and, holding his gaze, asked, “Where were you while I was preparing for what was conceivably the _most_ nerve-wracking evening of my life—or even before that, when I was undergoing _your_ judgment for how well I would be able to cope with even the mere possibility of it?”  
  
“Elsa, you have always been capable,” the King argued firmly, but it hardly felt like a compliment. “From the first day you learned to pick yourself up, you have been your own best teacher—”  
  
“We knew from the beginning that there would only be so much we could do to help,” the Queen insisted, and Jack realized with a start—she was begging. The Queen had stepped so far forward now as to leave the King behind her, and she was only an arm's length away from the pillar that was Elsa—tall and stiff and unyielding. They were close enough to embrace.  
  
If either of them would have tried.  
  
The Queen pleaded on, wringing her hands. “We knew that if there was anyone who could find a way to contain your magic, Elsa—it would be you.”  
  
Elsa's eyes narrowed.  
  
Quietly, she asked, “And if I no longer wish to contain it?”

(Cold air filled Jack's lungs,  
quick and sharp and _holy_ —  
  
— _fuck._ )

The King and Queen's eyes widened.  
  
“ _Elsa_ —!”  
  
“We do not have the _luxury_ of foolishness!” exclaimed the King, his tightly-wound anger just bristling beneath his skin—tired and wrinkled and strained. “We, too, long for a world where magic is accepted, but you know the truth of it. There are those who would seek to harm you—in a hundred thousand unimaginable ways!”  
  
“Including those in my own home,” she answered, unfaltering and unabashed.  
  
The Queen stepped back with a gasp, eyes filling with tears, and the King stepped forward, anger burning clear at the surface. Jack pressed himself close to Elsa's side, staff gripped tightly in his hand, heart pounding in his chest.  
  
“We are doing everything in _our_ power to protect you,” the King declared. “You have proven yourself capable of controlling your powers within these walls, but the world that awaits is full of endless uncertainty. Diplomacy is only the first defense against the greed and corruption that reigns overseas, and there is no telling what tricks any weasel with a title might do to shake you!”  
  
“Is that why I won't be attending the Summit with you, father?”  
  
Jack's head swiveled round, suddenly, staring at Elsa in shock.  
  
The King took a moment, long and laborious, and then straightened himself, tall.  
  
“Henrik told you, did he?” the King assumed quietly.

Jack swallowed hard, feeling rather as if his own tongue might choke him. ( _No,_ something whispered, angry and drained.) His skin prickled.  
  
( _No_.)  
  
“There was no need,” Elsa tightly replied, as Jack's eyes remained glued to her face, piercing and disbelieving.

( _No. No, no, no, no no nononononnonononno—_ )

“I'm afraid that I suspected as much from the moment I received your summons,” Elsa evenly explained, voice level, and carefully composed. Jack's insides were falling apart. “Your opinion on the matter has not much changed since last year's invitation, or the years' before that... In hindsight, I do not see any reason for why I should have expected it to change.”  
  
“Elsa—”  
  
“Especially since I shall not be receiving any sage tutors,” she declared, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Elsa, be _reasonable,_ ” the King demanded, clearly and completely frayed. “To reject this offer without any consideration would be unaccountably foolish!”  
  
“Then perhaps that is what I _am_ ,” Elsa countered, voice rising. “A fool for expecting that this year might be any different—that I may be given an opportunity to prove myself worthy of your trust, instead of being coerced into offering mine to a _stranger_.”  
  
“There is more at stake than just a matter of _trust_!” the King declared, and he was _fearsome_ in his passion, in his _conviction._ The Queen stepped back while Jack stepped closer, and all that was left was Elsa and her father, staring hard and unyielding. The King took a moment to compose himself, long and strained, and then pushed forward, voice as strong as the belief he entrenched in each word. “As members of the royal family, we have our _people_ to think of, to _protect_ , and as leaders of this kingdom, it means that the well-being of our people takes precedence over wishes of our own! Elsa, _think_ : the Southern Isles have been our allies through countless ordeals, but they would not hesitate to question our right to power if they knew what supernatural order was afoot! If you were to attend and something were to _happen_ —Elsa, make _one_ wrong move, and—”  
  
“How fortunate for us all, then, that I shall not be attending.”  
  
The King was still standing very, very tall.

.

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.

  
( _But Jack couldn't help  
but think  
that at some point, somehow,  
it had  
lost its  
  
effect._ )

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.

  
“Elsa,” the King began anew, very quietly. He was breathing very hard, though he was visibly trying not to, and so was the _Queen_ , who hadn't stopped crying, and so was Jack, even though he didn't need to.  
  
It seemed that the only one in the room capable of controlling their lungs was Elsa.  
  
“You must understand... this is... this is the only way we know how to protect this kingdom,” the King whispered, then cleared his throat. His voice grew stronger, more like the man Jack knew him to be, when his chin lifted and his eyes shined light, and he promised her, “The Trolls spoke to us very assuredly about the valuable teachings of this sage.” His eyes were very, very clear, when he said, “We are only suggesting these means out of love.”  
  
Jack watched Elsa's face carefully, glancing back and forth between her and her father. The King's expression was wide open, heart right on his sleeve—along with all of his years, all of his pain and loss and Hope.  
  
Elsa's was not.  
  
 _Conceal_ , he heard his mind whisper, as something shockingly cold dropped heavily into his gut. _Conceal.  
  
Don't feel.  
  
_ “Thank you, father.... but while I can appreciate the new interest you are taking in further developing my control, I think there is little room for argument in that over the years I have become quite adept at handling the matter myself.”

 

. * * * .

  
“Selfish, _short-sighted_ , self-righteous _coward_!”  
  
Jack winced as the flat of her palms connected sharply with the backs of his hands; his skin was turning a little purplish, more bluish and reddish than usual, but Elsa didn't seem to notice. Jack didn't mention it.  
  
Instead he hovered his hands once more over hers, and waited patiently for a strike that he _knew_ was definitely—  
  
 _Ouch_ , fuck.  
  
“I am _through_ playing politics within own family!” Elsa hissed, immediately holding out her hands again, expectantly, as Jack placed his back over hers. Jack waited, as tense and tight as a violin string, as Elsa raged on, cheeks flushing and heart racing, “Waiting until the _precise_ moment to ask for what I want—not that it ever makes a _lick_ of difference! All this strategy and waiting—always! And for what?” Elsa's hands twitched, violently, and Jack flinched enough to be noticed; held out his hands, properly, as Elsa graced his knuckles with another painful rap. “Keeping silent as we sit beside one another at a holiday supper, with our polite smalltalk and pointless chatter, and _theoretical_ discussions on politics, which I am still apparently not allowed to take part in? Well, _no_ more.”  
  
 _Ouch._  
  
“I've had enough of playing by the rules of their game. Be a _good_ girl, Elsa. Be _polite_ , Elsa. Just be _patient_ , Elsa—nonsense.”  
  
With one final slap—the slap to end all slaps—Jack pitched forward, partly from the pain and partly from the force, and Elsa gasped as Jack's battered hands fell tiredly to the space between their ankles, and then the next thing he knew, they were being cradled in Elsa's gentle, frenzied hold.  
  
“Why didn't you _say_ something!”  
  
 _And risk getting something else slapped instead?_ But seriously, why had he just allowed himself to become a veritable punching bag?  
  
Slapping bag.  
  
Slap _jack_.  
  
“Uh... I figured you kinda needed it more than I needed my hands, at the moment.”  
  
Elsa looked at him like he was crazy.  
  
He sort of felt crazy, actually.  
  
“Stupid,” she cursed beneath her breath, massaging her fingers over the strange coloring on the backs of his hands. Like the blood was rising to the surface, as it might have for anyone else, but his hands were already blue-tinged enough as it was, so. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid._..”  
  
“Uh, not to complain or anything, 'cuz I really appreciate the hand-helping thing that you've got here, but could we take down the insults a notch or two? Because I really don't think— _ow._ ”  
  
Elsa's fingers curled more gently around his hand, paying special attention to the subtle lines over his knuckles, the delicate bones beneath the skin. The veins just under the surface.  
  
He was staring just a little too hard at the blue of them, when Elsa's whisper cut through his consciousness, curious and fascinated. “You don't have any scars.”  
  
Jack's gaze flickered to her face, but she was staring at his hands, and when he looked down again, he realized that she was right. They didn't have anything. (“ _A scar is a story_ ,” his mother used to say, “ _They're the tales of our character, and yours are all foolish falls from trees.”_ ) Except they weren't, now. His body was void of any visible scars—skin too smooth to be perfectly human, too pale and translucent to be entirely natural—and Jack found himself suddenly self-conscious of his hands in a way that he'd never been before. As a human, his hands had been rough, and calloused—strong from days in the fields and working an axe through the firewood. He'd had splinters from his staff, at least until the years had weathered down the ridges, through impression after impression of his grip, through sweat and summer and harvest. The skin at his nails had been dry and cracked, battered by seasons of sheering wool, and at times, his skin had been nearly brown, stained by summer rays of the sun.  
  
“Yeah... I guess I don't,” Jack answered, throat dry. He wondered what she thought of them—what she would think of the stories no longer told by his hands. He wondered what she would think of the boy he once was, _Jackson Overland_ , the Shepherd boy who shirked his chores and terrorized the village, who didn't know how to talk to girls except to mess with them, who laughed a lot and made other people laugh, and who loved his sister very much.

  
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( _If he were born in a different world, in a different life...  
If he were just a peasant boy in the grand countryside of Arendelle— _

_  
._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_.  
  
Could they have been friends? _ )  
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“Your injuries must have healed very well, then,” Elsa said quietly, so quiet that at first Jack did not hear. A frown flicked itself onto his lips, confused by her words and her tone.  
  
“Injuries?” he echoed, as wandering thoughts struggled back. He felt the cool swipe of a thumb over the blue veins at the back of his hand, and Jack's breath stuttered in his lungs.  
  
“That night,” Elsa quietly replied. “When your hands were wrapped in bandages.”  
  
Jack swallowed as understanding shuddered through him.

( _Pitch._ )

So she did remember.  
  
(On the one hand, Jack was grateful that she had not yet asked where those injuries had come from, and desperately hoped she wouldn't. There were too many pieces to that puzzle that he did not yet want shared—not his impetuousness, nor his anger, nor the dark source behind it.  
  
And yet.)

( _Doesn't she want to know?_ )

“Yeah,” he replied vaguely. “I guess they did.”  
  
Elsa said nothing. Merely stared at his knuckles, lost within her own thoughts, and the realities of that evening crept coldly into his gut; her anger had distracted him from the gnawing worry that was threatening to twist his insides apart. But Elsa no longer looked angry—not as she did before.  
  
She did not let go of his hands.  
  
“Elsa,” Jack said suddenly. “What are you going to do about your parents?”  
  
A small laugh trickled out of her, low and hollow. “I don't know,” she admitted quietly. “In some ways, I almost... I almost think they're right. This _is_ the only way we know how to protect our people. And I do not doubt that they _have_ considered other options, like with this sage, or that they've explored the Trolls' suggestion fully. But it's not just that I don't trust the arrangement—because I don't. But. It's more than that.”  
  
Jack waited, letting her form her thoughts. After too long, however, Jack prompted, “What is it?”  
  
“It's... How can they expect me to be content with a cage?”  
  
“They can't,” Jack replied immediately.  
  
Elsa looked up at him, an almost sort of fondness to her disappointed smile and said, “They _shouldn't_... but they do.”  
  
Jack scowled. He couldn't argue.  
  
“Sometimes,” Elsa whispered, so quietly he almost couldn't hear, “I wish I could just... leave.”  
  
Something swelled in his chest, alarming in its suddenness, alarming in its intensity, and it was only after a stunned moment that Jack choked out, “ _Elsa_?”  
  
She laughed, shallow and self-deprecating.  
  
“Forget it,” she dismissed, that same hollow disappointment. “Those thoughts come to me sometimes, I suppose—when I'm feeling tired and thinking too hard about anchors.”  
  
Jack's mouth ran dry. Without thought, he was leaning closer—felt the squeeze of her small hands in his palms. ( _Was she holding his hands—or was he holding hers?_ )  
  
“But it's nothing more than fleeting whimsy... This is my home,” she whispered, staring at the blue of his veins. “My kingdom.”  
  
Jack's throat constricted, tight and thick, and _you don't owe them anything_.  
  
“And Anna?” he blurted, but the rest of his words didn't make it, wouldn't come. _Would you take her with you? We could fly away, you know—together.  
  
_ The way he'd dreamed they might.  
  
And then Elsa swallowed hard, brows tilting together in thought, and Jack's heart raced inside his chest. “Anna is more home to me than this castle could ever be,” she breathed. “Funny, how that works.”  
  
“Anna can leave anytime she chooses,” Jack tried to tell her, tried to get the words in the right order, so she'd _understand._ Elsa's brow arched high, confused and disparaging.  
  
“Can she?” Elsa asked wryly. “Anna is not afraid of adventure, yet there is a reason she has never ventured past the docks... and not past the gates for many years. Can she really, Jack?”  
  
 _Yes,_ he wanted to tell her. _And you can, too._  
  
But before he could voice it, Elsa was sighing, “What is more selfish? To stay, where I can pretend to watch over a sister who grows more distant every year? Or to leave, so that she may resent me freely, without guilt?”  
  
“Elsa—that's _not—”_  
  
“Anna has never wanted the responsibility of the throne, but she's never been given the chance to try,” Elsa reasoned. “Am I no better than my father, keeping her safe in a protective cage?” Then, “Maybe it _would_ be better for me to leave.”  
  
“Not like _that_ , it wouldn't,” Jack cut in, when he could wait no longer.  
  
“Why not?” Elsa asked, too calmly curious for Jack's sanity. “Her warm heart and loyalty are so easy to love. Surely, the kingdom would agree?”  
  
“Elsa, that's not my point,” Jack came dangerously close to snapping. “You can leave anytime you want—but you can always come back,” he urged her, only half-certain he even knew where he was going with this. But an idea had gripped him, fierce and sudden, and he was going to see it happen, no matter what. “Or you can leave this place forever, whatever—the point is that it's _your_ choice. Take Anna with you, or let her stay, either way, it's _you_ who decides—you and Anna—not anybody else.”  
  
“That's a lovely thought, Jack,” she said, and... the tone of her voice felt strangely— _condescending_? “But I'm afraid it doesn't work that way.”  
  
Jack pushed down at the ball of anger that swirled in his gut, and instead grasped tighter to the hands that held onto his. He leaned closer, so she would have nowhere else to look, and said, “Come outside with me.”  
  
Elsa blinked, taken aback by the firm hold on her hands— _by the manic look probably in Jack's eyes_ —and cautiously said, _“_ Jack _,_ I _—_ I can't.”  
  
“Yes, you can,” he argued, more desperately compelled by the idea than ever. He could already feel the night air on his skin, harsh and cold and alive on the wind. “Just one or two spins about the mountains—no one will ever know.”  
  
“ _Jack!_ ” Elsa sounded truly alarmed now, and Jack's heart stuttered with adrenaline. “I _can't_ just—where would we go?”  
  
“Does it matter?” he argued, and he was practically vibrating now. He held tighter to Elsa's hands, to keep them from shaking. “Just one flight through the forest. I won't even go very high, if you're scared of heights—”  
  
“Jack. It's _not—_ ”  
  
Something bit to the surface. “It's _your_ kingdom—shouldn't you see it?” he demanded.  
  
“I had rather hoped it would be _amongst_ my people,” she bit back, and she was stalling now, he could tell, “Not spying on them in the dead of night from the sky like some _ghost._ ”  
  
Jack nearly winced at that, but shoved the blow aside; she probably hadn't even realized. ( _Or had she?_ ) This was Elsa.  
  
This was _Elsa_.  
  
“This is about _you_ ,” Jack insisted, irritation searing hot beneath his skin, “And how _you_ deserve to taste a bit of freedom every once in a while—all right? We're not _doing_ this for your people!”  
  
“We're not doing this at all!”  
  
“What are you so worried about?” Jack demanded, growing truly frustrated. “It's not like anyone is going to see us!”  
  
“You don't know that!”  
  
“What, you don't think the guy with three centuries' worth of invisibility experience is going to be able to pull off a quick dive around the forest?”  
  
“Jack, it might do us well to point out that your three hundred years of invisibility is _precisely_ why stealth has never been one of your strong suits.”  
  
“Dammit, Elsa! I'm trying to tell you that this could _work—_ this isn't just some stupid, random idea, okay?” And it twisted something, felt like something had dug just a little too deep when he said— “This isn't the first time I've thought about this!”

“Then you should have asked me when I was too young to know any better!”  
  
Jack reared back, speechless.  
  
The look on her face sent daggers through his heart.  
  
It made him angry.  
  
“Yeah, and when would that've been?” he demanded, eyes as fierce as hers. “You assume an awful frickin' lot, you know, for having been such a precocious child.”  
  
Elsa deflated. Gradually, the way a wilting flower might die in a slow-crawling frost. Jack watched it happen before his eyes with sharp senses, to the roaring crash of waves outside, amidst the heady night scent of the sea. A heavy weight rolled upon him, a blanket threaded of reality, and suddenly Jack felt very strongly ashamed. He steadied himself with deep breaths, slow and shuddering, and squeezed her hands a little more gently. Reminded himself that it wasn't Elsa he was angry at.  
  
It wasn't Elsa.  
  
“I don't know,” she said softly, as if she didn't expect him to hear. “Probably... six? Maybe six-years-old. Perhaps.”  
  
She was laughing again. With her eyes and her hands and the downward pull of her mouth.  
  
Hollow, and resigned.  
  
“Six,” Jack echoed, like he didn't recognize the word. He licked his dry lips, ignoring the burn behind his eyes. “You wouldn't... you wouldn't have trusted me then,” he said softly, afraid to press the matter, terrified to let it go.  
  
“No,” Elsa agreed, eyes deep with truth. “I wouldn't have.”  
  
Jack forced an inhale, shaky and shuddering. It was the truth.

( _It was a long time ago,  
_ he told himself. _  
  
_But it didn't help.)

  
“Do you trust me now?” he asked, because he wanted to know.  
  
Because he was no longer so sure.  
  
A long pause set his teeth on edge. “It's not about that,” Elsa sighed. “The point is that I... no matter what I claim to my parents, I'm still not sure I trust _myself_.”  
  
“But do you trust me?” Jack demanded, insistent. He stayed where he was. “Do you trust me to help you? To keep you under control?”  
  
“Jack... That is exactly the sort of dependence I am trying to avoid,” Elsa reminded him quietly. “You won't always be around to help me.”  
  
( _Didn't she think he already knew that?_ he thought viciously, then balked at his own anger.) What difference would it make this _one time_ , one little spin about the heavens? He asked her.  
  
“Do you trust me?” he demanded, one last time.  
  
“Of course,” she whispered, with tired, clouded eyes. “More than anyone else in this world.”  
  
 _Then—_  
  
Jack's mouth opened as he pitched forward, hands clasped tight toward his chest, ready to convince, to—  
  
“But I'm too old to be lured in by your tricks, Jack Frost,” she interrupted lightly, before his words even began to form.  
  
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

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“My answer is no.”

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It was midnight when he heard it.  
  
He was at her side in an instant, leaning carefully over the side of her bed. It was a trick of the night, he thought; just noises inside his head. When he heard it a second time, just as quietly and just as soul-wrenchingly recognizable, his hand reached for her shoulder— _swiftly, no hesitation._  
  
But then a brief moment of shattering doubt overwhelmed him— _you aren't supposed to touch her—_ before Memory kicked in— _and something akin to reason_ —and in the half a second it took him to bring himself down from his swirling panic and remember that _yes_ , this was okay now, and _yes,_ he could still do this, he'd gone and worked himself up all over again over whether it was actually okay to touch her _now_ , in this moment, and then a third whimper rang out into the dark, and Jack didn't hesitate.

“Elsa?” he whispered, leaning closer. He couldn't tell if she was awake— _or something, somewhere in-between_ —and the idea of a Nightmare— _tonight_ —sent Fear crawling down his spine, cold and thick and gripping tight to each tiny vertebrae. He swallowed hard, then shifted his face closer, to see if he could see hers. “ _Elsa._ ”

She was awake, and she was shivering.  
  
Jack yanked away his hand on instinct— _terrified, because his cold had finally gotten to her_ —but then a muted cry broke free from her parted lips, and in the shadows Jack could only barely see the way she ducked her head deeper into the pillow. The way her fingers clenched in the soft fabric near her cheek.  
  
He stared for a moment, lost, and then shifted closer, pressing one knee into the covers—just enough to let her feel the weight of the mattress shift with his movements— _proof that he was really there_ —and he was _so_ careful not to breathe.  
  
He didn't expect her hand to reach out for him, or for her to use the fist in his sweatshirt to tug him closer, to pull him down onto the bed beside her, on top of the covers while she lay beneath them. His arms moved before his brain could tell them what to do, and then Elsa was crying into his chest, and she was safe within the protective shield of his arms.  
  
“I was— _so close_ ,” she whispered, muffled and cracking, and at first Jack didn't understand, because this was as close as they'd ever been— _perhaps the closest_ —

And then he remembered ships and Summits and grand ballrooms and letters, and all of the worry and sickening relief and heartbreaking disappointment returned in one foul swoop.  
  
He cradled her head in his hand, felt the ache in his chest as Elsa emptied her tears there, in quiet, broken sobs and scrabbling, clutching fingers. He let them sink in, seeping into the skin beneath the fabric; the rare tears, the loss and devastation; the realization that, in the morning, when the Queen and King set forth on their journey to the Royal Summit of the Southern Isles', Elsa would still be here.  
  
In Arendelle.  
  
Jack clutched her more tightly to his chest, pressing his cheek— _his chin, his jaw_ —to the crown of her hair. It wasn't fair.  
  
It wasn't fair.  
  
“I was— _so close_ ,” she sobbed, and Jack listened to the sounds for hours, useless, because there was no magic in the universe that could fix this. None.  
  
All he could do, instead, was hold her.

. * * * .

  
She was in Arendelle, safe, and in his arms.  
  
It wasn't nearly as satisfying as he might have imagined.

  
. * * * .

 


	121. - long-awaited -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/29/14_. I have a few more, but I don't really know how many I'll post tonight! You all made me so happy with your sweet comments last update, omg. ;____________; I'm going to try to respond to them soon, but please forgive me if it takes forever. I'm terrible at prompt replies, BUT I READ EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM (sometimes repeatedly) and honestly, they just brighten up my day, ahhhhhhhh.  <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- long-awaited -_

. * * * .  


It was the first time Jack Frost had seen Elsa cry, truly, since she was eight or nine-years-old.  
  
By morning, all traces of her tears were gone.  
  
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. * * * .  
  
 **. T U R N I N G    P O I N T S .**

 

1\. She bid her parents farewell in the grand foyer, with a respectful curtsy and a polite parting nod. The Queen curtsied in return, holding back tears.  
  
Elsa did not look her father in the eye.  
  
  
  
2\. Anna awaited her parents in the courtyard and followed them all the way to the docks. She was mournfully sad to see them go, and waited with Olga and Pavel at the main port until the ship was no longer in sight, and even longer after that; Jack knew this because he watched from his perch on the roof, watched the crowds of well-wishing townspeople who lined the docks while Elsa slept in her bedroom below, exhausted from a sleepless night of crying. Anna was a mass of chaotic, happy energy the entire walk back to the castle, however, and remained that way for the rest of the day, bouncing about the castle in unrestrained excitement; the reason, as Jack later learned from the staff rumor mill, was the long-awaited announcement made only the evening before, at supper.  
  
Anna's introduction into society was formally set for her sixteenth birthday.  
  
It was just over a year away.  
  
  
  
3\. The days that followed in the absence of the King and Queen were both a sharp relief and a repeated stab to the back, laced into each and every passing breath; for the townspeople of Arendelle, it was conceivably the best news all year. Their King and Queen were in attendance at the famous Summit? _And_ they held the promise of hosting another ball? With guests and _visitors_ and bachelors and dancing? The people of Arendelle were practically beside themselves with joy. _Why—it's simply too much!  
  
_ According to castle gossip, the kingdom's best calligrapher had already been commissioned to create the official invitations for Anna's introduction; fancy, swirly script—uselessness and all.  
  
  
  
4\. Jack and Elsa did not talk about what was happening on the other side of the country, across the sea and amidst the majestic waves of the southern shores. Elsa did not mention it at all, in fact, and though Jack often wanted to, what could he possibly say? ( _Hey—what do you think your parents are up to? I bet the food tastes like ash. The dancing probably sucks, too. Definitely not any fun—not nearly as much as we're having here, playing chess for the thirteenth billion time._ )  
  
Elsa smiled, every so often, at Jack's valiant efforts to cheer her up. And every night, he sat at the window, waiting, fully prepared to offer what was needed, should her tears return.  
  
But Elsa did not cry.  
  
Not again.  
  
  
  
5\. It was not nearly as difficult as he thought it'd be to balance his Guardian duties with watching over Elsa during those next few days. He always told Elsa where he was going (to _the North Pole,_ or _Tooth's Palace_ , or _I don't know—they won't tell me_ ) and when he'd be back, and some suggestions for what she could do in the meantime. ( _Don't smile. You're not allowed. Elsa—nope, that's exactly what I'm talking about. No smiling. Stop it. Elsa—stop smiling! Aren't you listening to me? You're not listening. Your smile is getting bigger._ ) It was hard to leave, every time, but he did— _because he had to_ —and when Jack eventually took off for the North Pole to prepare for the New Moon with the other Guardians— _set to rise the following night_ —he could actually do it because he knew that, somewhere, in a hidden cavern in some secret part of the world, there was a little golden box with Elsa's small face painted into the side. Elsa's Memories were safe.  
  
Pitch could not reach them.  
  
  
  
  
6\. The Guardians were a hot mess.  
  
Sandy returned from his trip to wherever, and he looked all the worse for wear. He was shedding sand everywhere, and it got into all the awkward, uncomfortable spaces between Jack's toes. Bunny's fur was ruffled in all the wrong ways, and there were tufts and clumps of hair that appeared to be missing. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were half a dozen eggs that were following him around, everywhere he went, with their arms outstretched, like they were waiting to catch him in case he collapsed. North's shirt was on inside-out, but no one else had seemed to notice, and Jack couldn't muster the mischief to tell him. His beard was tangled, and there were bags under his eyes, and he kept grunting at random intervals, and staring hard at the Moon.   
  
Toothiana could hardly concentrate during their meeting because of all the telepathic messages she was receiving about incoming teeth, and she was so busy directing her baby messengers to deliver them to the appropriate holding zones that she could barely pay attention to the others' reports. (She hadn't found more storage space, but had improvised, and was making do with what she had; Jack felt like a right asshole, because, somehow, in the midst of everything else, he'd totally forgotten that she was running out in the first place.) North was going on about patrols and stations and other important military jargon for the night of the New Moon, but Jack couldn't hear him; Toothiana's feathers were wilting more slowly than when Pitch had first attacked the Dreams, but her coat had clearly lost a bit of its sheen, and she definitely looked thinner than Jack had seen her last.  
  
It was in that moment that Jack truly realized just how ignorant he'd been.  
  
And how precarious their position really was.

. * * * .

 


	122. - black shadows -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/29/14_. This one hurt a bit. :(

 

. * * * .  
_  
\- black shadows -_

. * * * .

It was morning.  
  
In another world, or another universe, Elsa would have been waking up in her guest chambers on the Southern Isles.  
  
She would have woken long before her servants came to rouse her, and she would have stood near the open window in silence, reflecting on the beauty of the sea. The sky. How different the world could look when one was a part of it, in the open air of a balcony that she had never seen before. In the privacy of her chambers, Elsa would have carefully practiced her magic, breathing and creating, controlling and cultivating, and would have seamlessly left the snow to melt in the golden sunshine.  
  
Dressed by personal attendants—from home, of Arendelle—and then led to take breakfast with her parents in a private parlor. It would be a small and intimate affair, as the royal family of the Southern Isles was incredibly busy with the final preparations for that night's opening Welcome Feast, and Elsa and her parents would smile private smiles of victory and excitement. They would quietly discuss their agenda over tea and biscuits, and review their objectives for their conferences with the other leaders of their nearby nations: How to best lower taxes? What support should be given to the few universities on the rise, and how might that education become accessible to more scholars of all backgrounds? What specific steps would Arendelle take to ensure that provisions were reaching those suffering from drought in the west?  
  
By high noon, ships would be docking into the many harbors like never seen before—and what large docks, too, far larger and grander than Elsa had ever seen. Elsa would break away to rest, at her parents' request, and while all the lords and ladies arrived, Elsa would sit at her finely-furnished desk and write in North's gift to her, in the blue journal that faded more and more with each passing month. Jack liked to fancy that, instead of writing without audience or address, Elsa might dedicate each of these entries to a dearly missed friend.  
  
Like a letter.  
  
She'd write directly to Jack Frost, _Dear Jack_ and all, and tell him all the boring and exciting tales of staying abroad in another beautiful castle, with windows of different shapes and libraries of different sizes. She'd write about her fears and her hopes and the fun she was having, all the ways in which her dreams were being realized, and she'd laugh while she pictured the faces he'd make while reading them, his reactions and his antics. Henrik might be mentioned, but Jack could read over those parts easily.  
  
She'd write about how much she missed him, and how much she wished he could be there, and how she couldn't wait to see him again, once she was finally back home. She'd keep careful notes of all that happened, just so she could share it all with him later; she'd write them down, painstakingly, even though her memory was impeccable.  
  
And in the early afternoon, Elsa would set her journal aside, and prepare herself for a quick stroll about the gardens. Olga would accompany her as a chaperone, no doubt, because she was a nosy, well-intentioned busybody, and who should they meet purely by chance— _or a well-orchestrated ploy?_ It would be none other than Prince Sideburns of the Sunny What's-its, conveniently out for a brisk walk between receiving his guests. He'd be escorted by a servant or two, who'd been generously promised a lovely assortment of tips in exchange for keeping the lovely handmaiden of Arendelle in close, hospitable company as they all meandered through the winding garden paths. They would talk. They would chat and linger by the fountains in the middle of the garden's maze, then exclaim their concerned worry for their loyal chaperones, who seemed to have gotten lost amongst the tall rosebushes.  
  
Elsa would be privately scolded on the importance of propriety on the way back to her rooms, and then Olga, beside herself with joy, would wink hard enough to blacken her own eye.  
  
The feast would be a hearty show of luxury and status, with more than enough food to feed a whole kingdom, and Elsa would delight in meeting others, unknowing of how genuinely delighted others were to make her acquaintance. Her laugh would spread through the banquet hall like bells, and her smile would light up the room, and her skin would glow in the bright candlelight, and her eyes would absolutely shine, happier than they'd ever been.  
  
The dancing would come easily, and last long into the night. Elsa would have no want of partners, and would hardly be allowed a moment to sit—not that she would want to. When at last she'd found a moment to break away from the celebration, Elsa would sneak her way to a secluded balcony, lit with ceremonial torches, where she could thank Manny in peace— _even if she couldn't see him_ —and whisper loving apologies to Anna, in between all of her heartfelt promises that, _next year_ , she would join them. Together, as a family.  
  
Her eyes would gleam with the relief of it all. The sheer, unmistakable happiness of reaching one step closer to her freedom, to her destiny and to her reign. One step closer to Anna, even if her beloved sister did not yet know it. She would allow herself to cry, perhaps, as the music drifted over the waves and into the sea, as she stood beneath the New Moon's brightest stars, grateful, and determined.  
  
But that was not what happened.

. * * * .

“ _Jimmeny_ — _FUCK!”_  
  
“ _North—! Look!”_  
  
_“No...! Bozhe moi... It has BEGUN!”_  
  
_“What—what was that?”_  
  
_“Crikey, where the fuck'd it go?”_  
  
_“EVERYONE, STAY BACK! Toothiana, fly to top—check the Pole for black! Bunny—you, send command to boulders. New patrol, now! Sandy—what feeling have you?”_  
  
_“What—what the fuck was that?”_  
  
_“Frost, focus! Look at me!”_  
  
_“Was—was that—?”_  
  
_“North! The globes are now completely clear, but my fairies are reporting suspicious activity over Northern Russia, near the Berents Sea!”_  
  
_“Jack—look at me!”_  
  
_“It's heading fast to Qaanaaq, Greenland—no, to Toronto! ”_  
  
_“Tooth, send Siberian division to investigate! IMMEDIATELY!”_  
  
_“Yes, right away!”_  
  
_“Jack—snap the fuck out of it! Jack! For fuck's sake, you're comin' with me—get in the hole!”_  
  
_“BUNNY—BOULDERS!”_  
  
_“We're on it, all right?! Frost—FROST!”_

. * * * . _  
_

Jack tumbled hard onto solid ground, coughing up the soil that had flown into his open mouth. His attempts to push himself off the ground were thwarted by Bunny's thick paw, yanking him up by the collar of his sweatshirt, and then he was running, feet sweeping over lush, green grass.  
  
Bunny was sprinting, and everywhere around him giant sleeping rock creatures were sprouting to life in flashes of blue and green.  
  
“Don't just follow me—get that staff moving! Direct them through the tunnels!”  
  
It didn't even occur to him to fly.

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(It was early morning in Arendelle,  
but in Whitehorse, Canada—  
_in Berk, in the Highlands of Ancient Scotland_ —  
  
It was already night.)

  
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. * * * .

In the far room at the edge of Bunny's Warren,  
his single globe shifted and changed,  
revealing that a corner of each world had already grown dark,  
thickly enveloped in the creeping black shadows of the  
New Moon.

. * * * .


	123. - the lake -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/29/14_. Okay, I wasn't planning on posting this one tonight, but I gotta.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- the lake -_ _  
_

. * * * .

Timezones.  
  
It was always nighttime somewhere, and when you were dealing with as many worlds as the Guardians were, it meant that at least one globe was left unattended.  
  
Pitch was getting smarter.  
  
North told him to check on Burgess, so he did, and his chest almost ripped open at the sight of that same familiar little house, looking exactly as it did fifteen years before. It was empty, save for Jamie and Sophie's mother, who was quietly enjoying her late night tea on the porch. The house was quiet, the streets were quiet, and so was downtown with its little cars and little shops with their little latenight television sets, shining bright colors through the storefront windows.

( _The lake_  
  
 _was quiet,_  
  
 _too._ )   
  


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Jack left the little town behind, pushing onward with the rolling blackness of night. It was gonna be fine.  
  
It was.  
  
“JACK,” came a booming voice from the snowglobe in his pocket, and the rush of wind in Jack's ears made the sounds swirl, like the name was coming from inside his own head. It took another moment before he really heard it, and recognized who it was. “JACK.”  
  
His hair whipped forward into his eyes as he came to a screeching halt in the open night sky; at the edge of the horizon were the final traces of some other city's sunset, the last few traces of daylight, and it left an orangey, purplish glow in the air. Behind him was only darkness.  
  
He thrust his hand into his back pocket and snatched the small globe, holding it before his face. The magic inside was sparkling like angry glitter, little exploding fireworks that pounded against the inner-walls. A quick shake, and then North's face appeared through the glass like a window.  
  
“REPORT,” he commanded.  
  
Quick, and to the point. The Northeastern States were officially cleared. From what he could find in Chile and Brazil, most of South and Central America seemed to be adapting; he'd spoken briefly with one of the tooth-collecting mice in the Argentinean division, and confirmed that el Ratoncito P _é_ rez, after receiving orders from Toothiana's messengers, was guarding the new Memory Teeth with double security until the Baby Teeth could collect them. Jack was flying over the Atlantic Ocean now, headed for South Africa—  
  
“NO,” said North, although the glass amplified his voice to a dull roar. “SANDY IS THERE. TOOTHIANA HAS COVERED MOST OF THE EUROPEAN TERRITORIES AND THE SOUTHEAST. I HAVE MOTHER COUNTRY, AND BUNNY IS TAKING THE REST AS SOON AS AUSTRALIA IS CLEAR. YOUR TERRITORY IS DONE.” _  
  
_Jack's mouth opened and cold air swept in, biting at his teeth. “Right. So it's back to the Highlands now, before dawn breaks? Or to Berk? Is Bunny taking them? Who's covering Rapunzel in Corona?”  
  
“RAPUNZEL IS NOT _IN_ CORONA,” North reminded him, with a sad and knowing look that was distorted through the billowed glass. Jack's chest clenched for half a second, thinking of Elsa in Arendelle— _hopefully enjoying her afternoon tea and lemon cakes, like he'd told her to—_ and then North declared, “YOU MUST GO TO SOUTHERN ISLES.”  
  
Jack's heart dropped into his stomach.  
  
“Wait— _what_?”  
  
“I AM SORRY, JACK. THERE IS TOO MUCH RISK. YOU MUST GO NOW—QUICKLY. THEY ARE PREPARING TO LIGHT THE TORCHES, AND WHEN THE SUN SETS FULLY IT MAY ALREADY BE TOO LATE. WE CANNOT RISK THE SUMMIT.”  
  
The Summit.  
  
“North, wait, but what about—isn't _Bunny_ —?”  
  
“BUNNY CANNOT. IT MUST BE YOU, JACK,” North declared sternly, but then his expression softened. A single nod, and, “I AM SORRY,” and then he was gone.  
  
Jack stared at the tumultuous clouds of magic within, the blue and green and purple dust all screaming to break free of its glass prison, and suddenly Jack let out a gut-churning _roar_. His toes felt numb with it, and his back ached with the force of the arch the scream curved into his spine, and his head was pounding, but there wasn't any time for that, no time at all, so with a growl, Jack clenched the snowglobe tight within his fingers and chucked it hard into the wall of wind, where it exploded into the familiar abyss of a portal.   
  
He rushed into it headlong, staff held tight in his hand as he raced forward—felt the magnetic draw of the pull, the force of being sucked inside—and disappeared.

. * * * .


	124. - sugar cubes -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/2/14_. We're rollin' now. ;)

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- sugar cubes -_

. * * * .

“Oh,” said Elsa, slowly sitting herself up from the wall of pillows on her bed. Her smile was genuine, if not a little confused. “You're back.”  
  
It took a moment to take it all in: Elsa, curled peacefully atop her thick covers, intent on the book in her lap. Her nightgown, already on in the thick summer's heat, thin blue robe wrapped snugly at her waist. Her slippers were set neatly on the floor. A gentle breeze sifted through the calm, bringing with it the fresh smell of the ocean and a light ruffle to her hair, coiled neatly in its usual place.  
  
Jack could have cried.  
  
“Hey,” he breathed, nodding slightly, mostly to keep himself from falling over. She gave him a peculiar look, intrigued, and Jack's tired feet dragged him slowly forward. Somewhere at the foot of her bed, Jack let his staff drop gently to the floor, and then he was facing her, and sliding onto the edge of the bed, one leg curling beneath him. His hands fell loosely to his lap, and he still felt dazed, disoriented even, but there was the smallest trace of a smile on his face—a natural result, he was sure, of sheer relief—even if he felt like death warmed over.  
  
Or not.  
  
“How are you?” he asked, because he was desperate to know, and also because he was desperate not to let his thoughts stray down that path—not now. Not any more, tonight.  
  
Elsa seemed amused by the question. Her head ticked to the side, mouth opening to speak but laughing instead—the kind that jerked her shoulders forward, just slightly—and something clenched deep inside his chest, painful and miserable and longing. Jack needed to hear Elsa laugh.  
  
“I'm... all right, I suppose,” she answered thoughtfully, and Jack found himself shifting closer toward her, scooting his foot along the floor until his bent knee was nearly touching her nightdress. “It's been a quiet evening.”  
  
Jack nodded, finding it difficult to swallow. “Good,” he replied, feeling his face stretch with the effort it took to muster up a smile, and then chewed the inside of his cheek, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. He was very, very tired.  
  
“Did you find what you were looking for?”  
  
“Hm?” Jack glanced up, unaware that his eyes had drifted to the embroidered designs on one of her pillows. His head felt like a solid weight upon his shoulders, and his limbs were filled with lead.  
  
Elsa paused, watching him carefully, then shifted herself on the bed, settling more firmly into the mattress as she leaned closer toward him. Jack stilled, then let his widened eyes drift hazy once more. He ignored the sudden wave of dizziness.  
  
“Bunny stopped by this morning on his way to Corona,” Elsa whispered, and Jack's eyes narrowed, not understanding. Bunny? Was here?  
  
“This morning?”  
  
Elsa nodded. “Just for a moment,” she said softly, remembering. “He seemed in a rush, but he said hello and left me a box of sugar cubes for my tea. Told me they were from somewhere special, though I can't say I would recognize from where, even if he told me. Asked me to keep the window open, and to eat plenty of sugar.”  
  
Jack's brain was a fuzzy mess. “That... sounds like something that Tooth might not be very pleased about.”  
  
Elsa laughed, whether from the absurdity of the situation or Jack's disoriented haze, he couldn't be sure. Sugar? Window open? “Bunny is so frickin' weird,” he muttered, mostly to himself.  
  
She smiled again, the kind where the shuddering laughter trickles through your teeth, and her shoulders were shaking with it when she said, “I know. But it sounded very important, and I trust his judgment... which is why I'm afraid to admit that the box is almost empty.”  
  
Jack's eyes widened. “You _ate_ almost an entire box of sugar cubes?”  
  
“I _drank_ quite a few cups of tea today. They just happened to be full of sugar.”  
  
Jack stared at her for a moment, speechless. Laughter bubbled out of his chest, slow to start, but then he was powerless to stop it, even as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The ridiculousness of the entire day was getting to him.  
  
“Jesus,” Jack whispered, dragging his hands down his face. “How are you not bouncing around the room on a sugar high?”  
  
Elsa's eyebrow arched, high and sly and incredulous.  
  
Confused, Jack stared back, just as incredulously. A quick shock of alertness tore through him, jolting his eyes wide and a strange ache into his limbs. “Holy shit,” he marveled, as if noticing her for the first time. “You're fucking wired.”  
  
She frowned, because she obviously had no idea what that meant, but the implications were clear enough. Jack could see it now, though, now that he was actually aware of it. Energy thrummed off of Elsa's frame like a fucking radio tower, and her muscles were clenched and rigid to keep them from shaking out the restless nerves. Her eyes were wide, alert, calculating, blue to deep black in the center, and Jack was _one-hundred-and-ten percent_ certain that what Bunny delivered to Elsa was not merely one-hundred percent sugar.  
  
“I believe,” Elsa began, as Jack began to laugh, with just a hint of snide frustration to her clipped tone, “That someone intended for me not to go to sleep tonight.”  
  
Bunnymund was a brilliant, fucking genius.

. * * * .

 

He was still bone-tired, but seeing Elsa this hyper was enough to give him the kickstart he needed.  
  
What he'd first mistaken for calm— _in the midst of his exhausted haze, in his dreariness and dread_ —was merely Elsa's way of holding herself together through whatever drugged-up, magicked-up state of physical being Bunny had supplied her with, which was mostly just to read through entire books in one sitting. Jack's eyes were the size of saucers when she showed him the stack she'd completed that day. Seriously. All Jack did when he was hyper was roll around on the walls. (Toothiana had made it very, very clear that North was never allowed to give him coffee again.)  
  
Midnight came quickly, which Jack found hilarious because he had seen and experienced— _in different worlds and places and eras_ —this particular midnight a hundred times over already, a _never-fucking-ending_ night, and this time, he would finally see the dawn.  
  
With Elsa.  
  
Jack sobered, remembering the moment he realized that he could _actually_ return to Arendelle, not too long ago, when North told him to go back. After so many hours of darkness, and rushing and flying and dreading and taking orders and following commands and submitting reports and assisting mice and carrying teeth and making sure Tooth ate and trying to make Sandy laugh and—  
  
( _“Go back to Arendelle,_ ” said North, as Jack stared at him, speechless, with a head full of torches and gut full of lead. _“Our bases are set, and Pitch will grow less bold as the sun begins to rise. We have all that we need, for now.”_ )  
  
Elsa was laughing at something—something that probably didn't make sense, like he'd been, only a moment before—but Jack's mood felt distinctly off from two minutes ago. As Elsa's happy laughter filtered through his head, Jack recalled the lords and ladies in the grand, opulent ballroom the Southern Isles, in all of their summer finery and celebration. Her shoulder was nudging into his side, but all he saw was the dancing and the riotous laughter, the flowing drinks and the merry well-wishing, the grand success of a Welcome Feast. As Elsa's laughter died down and trailed off, Jack remembered the visit he'd taken to the bedchambers of the King and Queen of Arendelle. The looks on their faces.  
  
Their silence.  
  
The way the Queen stood alone at the railing of their balcony, staring out at the sea. Or the way the King came to comfort her, with strong arms around her shoulders, and the way her small hands had looked so frail when she'd reached for them, like even that was too much. He'd pressed a cup of warm tea into her hands not long after that, when the brightness of the torches no longer hurt Jack's eyes, and Jack had seen the few drops of brandy he'd tipped it with, the small glass he'd poured for himself. The Queen sipped it gingerly, elbows against the railing, and eventually the King realized that his wife would not be joining him soon for bed.  
  
Jack stared at the underside of the canopy, thinking.

“You're rather deep in contemplation,” Elsa teased, pushing at his shoulder with her hand. Her smile was bright—nearly blinding, all things considered. “What cat has your tongue all of a sudden?”  
  
And there were many reasons, of course, for why Jack simply could not say, _Your father_.  
  
“I've been thinking,” Jack began, uncomfortable but serious. “About what happened with your parents.”  
  
Whatever fun was in the room before, it was sucked out immediately. He'd obviously killed it, but for once—Jack couldn't bring himself to regret it. This was something that they needed to talk about.  
  
Elsa hesitated, then nodded, stiff and cautious. This was more than just a little out of the blue. “Go on.”  
  
 _Jesus_. Just because Jack knew that he needed to talk about it didn't mean that he knew how to _say_ it. _Fuck it_. Better not to beat around the bush.  
  
“Can I be blunt?”  
  
“You tend to be.”  
  
“No, I mean—can I be honest?”  
  
Elsa considered him. “I'd like you to be,” she answered, reluctantly.  
  
Jack nodded, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable fallout. “Good,” he said, weakly, then cleared his throat. “Look, so... So _normally_ , I pretty much hate your father.”  
  
Elsa's brows shot high into her forehead. “ _Oh,”_ she said, ineffably. “You weren't joking.”  
  
Uneasiness stormed through Jack's stomach, but it was too late—too important—to retreat now. “ _Well_ —essentially—I usually think the King is an idiot. Actually. Most of the time, I _still_ think your dad is an idiot. I mean—who the fuck would _do_ this? To their own daughter? Like, what _possible_ reason could be good enough to—” But Jack was getting ahead of himself. He cleared his throat, forcibly, while Elsa watched on, wide-eyed, and then he took a deep breath. Now for the tricky part.  
  
“So... I think the guy's a misguided, well-intentioned fool, who never seems to exactly know how to do the right thing, essentially. No matter how much he wants to. Even though... that's always _what_ he wants to do,” Jack said slowly, words trailing off as new thoughts came creeping in. There was something about this, now that he'd said the words aloud, that sounded familiar. He ticked his jaw, bit his cheek. Muttered, “The right thing, that is.”  
  
“Jack,” Elsa said, after too much silence. She was curious, but there was caution in her tone, too. Defense, maybe—like she already got his point, but she was waiting for him to work himself up to it. “What exactly are you trying to say?”  
  
“I'm saying... I'm saying that what your parents are doing to you is wrong, and that your parents are idiots for not realizing just how wrong it is,” Jack admitted, swallowing, “But also that they obviously love you.”  
  
Elsa stared at him, questioning, until something flickered in her eyes. A sternness to them.  
  
A coldness.  
  
Quietly, she asked, “Are you defending them?”  
  
“Never,” Jack said immediately, affronted. “I—maybe. No. _No_. I just...” Shit. _Just say it now_ , _before you lose the balls to ever say it again_. “I'm just saying... I don't, I don't really know what I would do for a chance to see my mother again, because—because I'm not really one for heart-to-hearts in the first place—or, at least, I _wasn't—_ but...” _Shit._ He didn't know where he was going with this. “I don't know,” he admitted, shrugging helplessly. “I _do_ think about it, sometimes, about what I'd say if I could talk to her, and what I'd say to her if I _could_ see her again, like... like you mentioned to me one time.” (He hadn't wanted to talk about it then, _but_.) “You know? Like a good son would—like how much I loved her. Or how much I appreciated her.” (Oh, _balls_.) “I don't know,” he shrugged, gruff and suddenly irritated. “I don't know—I guess I just wanted to say it—that however much your parents well and truly _suck,_ I can see it, you know? How much—how much they love you.”  
  
Elsa didn't look much happier about it, but she was clearly considering his words. Eventually, Elsa nodded her head, and Jack didn't know if that meant that she was accepting his advice— _whatever it was_ —or simply acknowledging his need to say it, but it looked like she was thinking, and that was a good enough sign in his book, for now.  
  
“Jack,” Elsa said quietly. “I know that. And I love them, too,” she whispered. “But sometimes... that's not enough.”  
  
He thought about that. And, after a long, thoughtful minute, Jack nodded and said, “Okay.”

. * * * .  


“I've been thinking,” Elsa told him suddenly, eyes bright with quiet mischief. Jack blamed the final two sugar cubes, which were still dissolving in the cup of tea she held lovingly in her hands. Jack held tight to his own cup— _the one she'd coerced him into drinking with her_ —and ignored the uncomfortable heat seeping through the porcelain. They were knee-to-knee upon her covers, using their crossed ankles as tabletops for their horribly hot tea; he was trying to figure out how he could chill it without her noticing.  
  
“Oh, yeah?” he muttered with half-interest, slipping out a tiny of bit of frost into the dark liquid swirling in his cup. His own magical sugar cube was a blob of crystalized mush at the bottom; Tooth wasn't going to be very happy with him.  
  
“Perhaps I was not meant to attend the Summit.”  
  
Jack's eyes flickered up to meet hers, surprised and dismayed. He was only barely able to control his volume when he clutched tight to the stupid handle and demanded, “What in the _hell_ would make you think that?”  
  
Elsa stared deeply into her tea, shrugging her shoulders in silence. “Well. Perhaps... Perhaps, the first time I am meant to leave the castle should _not_ be for the approval of my parents,” she suggested. “Perhaps it should be done for myself.”  
  
Jack blinked, long and laborious.  
  
Huh.  
  
“Well... That would make sense, I guess. But then that would mean that, this... _wouldn't_ have been for yourself?”  
  
Soft trails of steam floated up towards her face, dancing along her cheek. “Maybe not,” she revealed. “Maybe this _was_ more for my parents than it was for me. For their approval.”  
  
“But isn't... that part of what you wanted?”  
  
Elsa gingerly sipped her tea. “I suppose what I'm trying to say is... perhaps that is what I _thought_ I wanted,” she admitted quietly. “And maybe... I've realized that it's not really, truly what I want at all.” Then, “Not anymore.”  
  
Jack's mouth opened, soft and speechless. His heart stuttered in his chest, but it was best not to let himself hope—not yet, anyway. “So,” he cleared his throat, aiming for nonchalant. “You... _do_ want to go outside?”  
  
“Eventually,” Elsa clearly replied, taking another sip. Jack's heart quickened, loud and skipping, and he held tight onto the burn of his cup to keep his hands from shaking. “But on my terms,” she added, with an air of decision that told Jack something very important: this was clearly something she had given a great deal of thought. She _meant_ it. “And while leaving the castle _is_... important to me,” Elsa declared, “It is also not what is most important.”  
  
Jack stared at her, in disbelief.  
  
Anna.  
  
“You're going to try to see her,” Jack said aloud, marveling. “Whether your parents approve, or not.”  
  
Elsa gently sipped her tea.  
  
“It has become very clear to me,” said Elsa, with the quiet sort of knowledge that he sometimes heard from Tooth or Bunny—or North. “That their trust may never be easily given... I have their unconditional love, but neither their trust nor their approval, which I have come to learn are very different things, and I may very well have to learn to live with that. And then shortly after coming to this realization, I found myself wondering, truly, if they ever intended to share it at all,” said Elsa, clearly, as her eyes narrowed slightly, in careful consideration.

(The tea in Jack's hands suddenly felt very, very  
 _cold._ )

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean... That my parents are at a loss,” said Elsa, watching Jack's face carefully, eyes still slitted with solemn thoughts. “And for all their strategy and planning, they honestly have no idea what to do with me. Who knows what they expected, but whatever their plans, they have certainly fallen short... and now, they are without an alternative.”  
  
“I don't—what does that—?”  
  
“Jack,” she cut him off, firm but gentle; _chin high, eyes clear_. “You know they have no intention of seeing me become Queen.”  
  
His eyes widened, shocked.  
  
“ _Elsa_ ,” he said, for what else was there? “That...” ( _What—can't be right? Couldn't be true?_ ) The longer her words settled into his mind, over and over, the more Jack realized, swift and deep and sickening—  
  
There could be no greater truth.  
  
A pit sunk into his stomach, hard and cold, and his whole throat burned with it, that churning that spread its way all the way out into his chest and throat and limbs.  
  
Her tea was almost gone, but Elsa continued to sip away, little by little, seemingly unfazed; Jack knew better. “It means nothing in the long run, of course,” she said evenly, “Now that I've realized it. They've been preparing Anna for years in the way of royal duties, but she has never wanted the burden. It is hers, should she desire it, but until then, the birthright is mine.” _Sip_. “Regardless of my parents' wishes.”  
  
Wait. This—this conversation was moving way too quickly. Was this—was _she_ —?  
  
“Elsa,” he echoed, startled to realize that the drink in his cup had turned to ice. Alarmed, he set the cup onto the covers, jerking his hands away from the discarded tea to move them closer to hers; they rested upon her ankles, clinging to an empty cup.  
  
“I suppose it does not matter,” she whispered, staring at the block of ice in Jack's fine porcelain, set beside him on the covers. “I've already decided what needs to be done.”  
  
Jack tried to swallow, but his throat was too scratched, lumped and thick. “What does?”  
  
A great sigh, deep and calming.  
  
And tired.  
  
“You know as well as I that my powers have been contained for far too long,” she told him. “ _It is like_ —it is like I once told you, like—like a stormis _inside_ of me,” she whispered, cheeks flushing with anticipation, with determination. Jack stared, stricken.  
  
“What do you want to do?” he whispered.  
  
Elsa lifted her chin, thinking hard. “I will show them,” she said, with great solemnity. Like making a vow. “I will hone my powers, as well as my self-control, and I _will_ see my sister again. Once I have mastered my strength, beyond all expectations; by my eighteenth birthday, Anna and I will be together again,” she whispered. “ _I swear it_.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed.  
  
“And one day, I will be Queen,” Elsa quietly declared, with fingers curled around empty porcelain.

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“Whether they approve, or not.”

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. * * * .


	125. - frosty masterpiece -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/2/14_. Am I freaking anyone out yet? ~~I CERTAINLY HOPE SO.~~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- frosty masterpiece -_

. * * * .

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. * * * .

**. G L O B E S .**

Elsa's Turning Point never came.  
  
It should have freaked him out, but really—it didn't. Jack figured that this week had brought about enough change as it was, _without_ the weird flashing lights.  
  
Which brought him right back, unfortunately, to this moment:  
  
“I reckon Frost ought to get a globe of his own now, don't you?” Bunny declared with a smirk, crossing his arms with enough pompousness to rival a peacock. (He'd have to save that barb away, for later.) “Might be nice to have the Warren to myself, for once.”  
  
“Oh, please. You'd bore your tail off without me.”  
  
“Not with _this_ one breathing down my back about gift baskets, I won't.”  
  
“Color preference is VERY IMPORTANT!”  
  
“Oh, pipe down, ya blowhard! You wouldn't know a cream from a pastel to a—”  
  
“Well, _I,_ for one, think it's a wonderful idea,” interrupted Tooth, before any blood could be shed. “It's about time Jack had a base of his own.”  
  
Jack blinked, very much aware of how everyone was suddenly staring in _his_ direction. “Well... that's a nice thought and all, but... I don't really have one in mind yet.”  
  
“What better time to make one?” Bunny butted in, stealing another hard glance to North, who was stroking his beard in thought. “The world is your frozen oyster, or somethin' like that.”  
  
“Bunny is right!” North declared. “JACK—you have been Guardian for many years now! It is time that you create a globe of your own!”  
  
“I... _make_ my own?”  
  
“YES! Why—it will be a FROSTY MASTERPIECE!”  
  
“Huh,” Jack nodded, uneasily. He was torn between laughing outright at the _hell no_ of the entire situation and that same wary feeling he'd experienced the first time he'd shown up on the floor of North's workshop, shrinking back into the relative safety of his burlap sack.  
  
“Pick any place you like!” Toothiana encouraged him, and her smile was so bright that Jack's chest actually ached. “ _Oh—!_ You choose, and whenever you're ready, Sandy and I will come help you set up!” Sandy nodded vigorously, from the side.  
  
Gah. He couldn't disappoint her _now_.  
  
“Ah,” Jack nodded, forcing a smile. “All right. Thanks.”  
  
“I am actually glad that our furry friend has brought this up,” said North, who stepped forward into the circle with both hands upon his hips. “Because it is time for a very important announcement, and JACK—this pertains to you, as well.”  
  
Instinctively, Jack's arms crossed over his chest. Sliding a look of easy interest over his face, he shrugged and grinned. “Me?”  
  
“Very possible,” North said, vaguely, as he circled around the distinct markings of the Moonstone at the hub of North's workshop floor. It was still too close to the New Moon to ask Manny much of anything directly, but the others liked to be as well within his sight as much as possible. Jack stopped being weirded out by it a long time ago.  
  
“So... what is it?”  
  
For a moment, North only stared, to which Jack returned a hitching brow. “Pausing for dramatic effect, old man?”  
  
“Eh—perhaps,” he shrugged, then immediately assumed his jollier self, and strode forward to the railing that protected his hugely-constructed globe. “You also have something stuck to your shirt.”  
  
“What?”  
  
The moment that Jack looked down, a giant, fuzzy, Bunny-clawed finger swiped up and flicked his nose. The remaining steps to the globe were not-exactly-enhanced by a duet of uproarious laughter.  
  
“Real funny, guys,” he dryly remarked, leaning his elbows heavily onto the railing with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Looks like I can resign from Guardian of Fun immediately.”  
  
“Better not,” Toothiana chirped, and Jack nearly started, for she was suddenly beside him, clutching tight to the railing as her wings flapped furiously behind her. She looked more excited than she had in days. Weeks, even. “I happen to know somebody who _needs_ you.”  
  
In spite of himself, Jack couldn't resist a small smile. She was clearly referring to Elsa—but this also seemed to be a _spectacular_ time to flirt.  
  
“ _Why, Tooth,_ ” he breathed, and let his grin grow wider—teeth and all. “ _I'm honored._ ”  
  
“Oh, for the love of—can we get on with this, or what? I've got nine months until the next Easter and—”  
  
“ _Ladies!_ Ladies, pick yourselves up this _instant!_ ”  
  
“FROST! While it is true that we each need you in turn—”  
  
“Speak for yo' bloody self.”  
  
“—Toothiana instead refers to ANOTHER, who may just yet need you more!”  
  
This gave Jack pause.  
  
Slowly, he rose himself up from his slouch over the railing, no longer pleasantly distracted by the sudden rush of Tooth's wings, or the chittering of the baby fairies behind him. Some of the easiness faded away, and soon Jack was left with narrowed, curious eyes. “What do you mean?”  
  
North beamed.  
  
“My boy—feast your eyes upon the globe! Do you see the faint red light—THERE? Why—once Manny gives the official decree—”  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” Toothiana breathed, so happy that her voice was actually _hushed_ in the strength of her excitement. Her hand was on his shoulder, when—  
  
“Mate... that's your next assignment.”

. * * * .


	126. - a counterstrike -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/2/14_. Last one for tonight. ;)

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- a counterstrike -_  
  
. * * * .

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. * * * .

**. A S S I G N M E N T S .  
**

This meeting was never gonna fucking end.  
  
Of course, Jack's ability to contribute had lessened considerably since their gleeful announcement that he'd apparently be getting another assignment within only another year or two. He didn't know what they'd expected. (He didn't know what _he'd_ expected.) All he knew was that the last time he'd felt anything close to this was the day he'd showed up in a sack on the floor to a giant fanfare of confetti and trumpet-playing elves.  
  
(" _Oh,_ ” he'd said, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, with only the vaguest, most soul-consuming notion that he should be polite. _“I... see_.”)  
  
Ugh. It was all Jack could do to keep from hitting himself in the face.  
  
He didn't even know what the hell he was so freaked out by either. Like—this case _should_ be assigned to him. Ten, fifteen years ago—Jack would have eaten this assignment _up._  


 **HIRO HAMADA:**  
Prodigal genius. Robots specialist.  
Underground Bot Fighter.  
Super brains, but no balance;  
“ _All play and no work,”_ which his brother was trying to change.  
Eleven-years-old.  
  
 _**Belief:** _ Not _ Yet_.

The problem was—  
  
This wasn't ten, fifteen years ago.  
  
And Jack didn't know how to be a Guardian for anybody else but Elsa.

. * * * .

(And, as Jack was terrified to learn,  
he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to be.)

. * * * .

But inevitably, the Guardians' small taste of happiness was bound to fade out eventually.  
  
It never seemed to last as long, these days.  
  
“So what is he doing?” Tooth was pondering, small fingers holding tight to the corners of her mouth whenever she wasn't speaking. “Stringing us along?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Bunny replied, emphatically. “ _Yes_ —don't you get it? That's _exactly_ what he means to do!”  
  
“Bunny,” said North, face drawn with stern consideration. “You have new idea?”  
  
“Think about it: Pitch _feeds_ off of Fear. He doesn't _need_ the actual gore—although that may come later, if he gets his way. But it's not the blood he wants, just yet—”  
  
“Fear,” Jack repeated, as everything suddenly clicked. “And... he's practically _devouring_ ours.”  
  
“That's what he's doing!” Bunny insisted. “He's trying to spook us. He's wearing us down, keeping us on our toes—always waiting for the next strike.”  
  
“Never a moment to rest,” Tooth added, breathlessly.  
  
“We've been non-stop vigilant for a year now,” Bunny raged on, staring at each of them in turn. Even Jack was captivated, sitting upon his spot at the window's ledge. “How much longer you reckon we can keep this up until we slip?”  
  
North's face hardened. “We _won't._ ”  
  
“But suppose we do,” Bunny argued, just as quickly. “Then what? It's not enough to prepare for attack; we need a counterstrike.”  
  
“On _what_?” Toothiana sighed. “We don't even know where the entrance to his lair is. He could be hiding anywhere.”  
  
“Well, it's not enough to just let ourselves run ragged!” Bunny declared. “We can't keep calling nights like last night _victories_! There are still nearly a hundred teeth that haven't been recovered yet, and we don't have a clue where to start looking.”  
  
“So what do you suggest?” Tooth asked, and Jack could tell that she wanted _so_ desperately to believe him, to move forward with some new sort of plan. “I haven't a fairy to spare without risking the safety of the children's Memories, and they're already running themselves into the ground with the level of security we have to maintain. If I rip apart myself any further I'll trigger the aging process.”  
  
A spike drove through Jack's chest.  
  
“ _No_ ,” said North, swift and silent an _final._ “We are _not_ that close to desperation!”  
  
“Not yet,” Bunny muttered.  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
The other Guardians grew quiet.  
  
“Aging... is a very difficult business for Guardians,” Toothiana explained, looking to Jack. “It's only to be used in the most dire of emergencies.”  
  
She let that sink in, but it did little to help.  
  
“It's... _possible_?” Jack's eyes widened. His chest clenched, almost painfully. “ _How_?” he breathed.  
  
“It's not what you think it is, kid,” Bunny sighed, immediately, and Jack's head swiveled to meet his gaze, stricken. Bunny refused to look at him, and instead kept his eyes on the floor; Jack continued to watch him, even as North began to speak.  
  
“In times of great, great need, Guardians... can revoke their immortality in order to release a great deal of power,” and okay, _now,_ Jack's attention was solely on North.  
  
“Almost twenty years ago, when Pitch had us cornered, we came very, very close,” Toothiana added, sounding almost... apologetic. “It is very difficult to trigger, and it does not come without its consequences.”  
  
“But... How does it work? I mean—what happens?”  
  
“It's dangerous,” Tooth answered, frowning deeply in thought. “For a brief period of time, once the process has ignited, we are nearly invincible. Our powers are amplified, and our strength is beyond anything we might ever be capable of otherwise. But there is a catch,” Toothiana warned. “What gives must also take, and once the strength has been used to the fullest extent of its capacity, it is depleted—twice as quickly, with twice the force. We age, though its quickness depth truly depends on the Guardian... The important thing is that the power does not last, which makes the reconnection to the Moon almost impossible, so it must be done quickly, before the Guardian is completely drained of their magic.”  
  
“Well... what happens if the Guardian doesn't regain the immortality? Do they keep aging?”  
  
“No,” said Tooth, voice and eyes level. “They die.”  
  
“You see, Jack,” said North, as Jack Frost struggled to rewire his brain back into functioning order. “There is not enough to sustain us, without magic. It is what gives us life. Without it...”  
  
“Just bodies,” Jack whispered, and it was an accomplishment, really, that he didn't say, _Corpses._  
  
“It is not usually worth the risk.”  
  
“Then why chance it at all?”  
  
“Because, sometimes, great sacrifice is required,” North continued. “In exchange for the greater protection of those we protect. We have been granted great responsibility, gifts from the moon, but we were all someone else before we were Guardians. Each of us have traces of our mortality left in us... That's what gives us our power.”  
  
“I thought.... our magic did that.”  
  
“Our magic gives us the tools,” North said carefully, like he was teaching Jack how to use a chisel—something delicate, and easily broken. “It is our humanity that gives us strength.”  
  
“ _Again_ —speak for yourself.”  
  
“It is our _mortality_ ,” Toothiana clarified, ignoring Bunny's outburst. “The lives we lived before... the people we loved.”  
  
“Or,” said Bunny, “What's left of them.”  
  
Jack stared at them, unblinking.  
  
He had no idea what to say.  
  
“Well,” Bunny sighed, which was really more like half a groan in the awkward silence. “Guess it's time to start plannin'.”  


. * * * .


	127. - Rapunzel's engagement -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/15/14_. I know I said on tumblr this weekend that these chapters would be up yesterday, but I was too exhausted to do much of anything on Sunday. The beginning of the school year is always really rough, and my schedule has been something of a hot mess, soooooo. We'll see how this goes.

. * * * .

_\- Rapunzel's engagement -_

. * * * .

 

The following weeks passed quickly.

Elsa welcomed her parents home in the foyer with just as much solemn, distant respect as she'd shown at their departure; it was early morning, just after breakfast, and the entire time, Jack watched her face like a hawk. ( _Things are different_ , his mind whispered. _Things have changed_.)

But Elsa gave away nothing.

. * * * .

  
Olga found more reasons than ever to knock upon Elsa's door unannounced. (Tea, crumpets, biscuits, lemon cakes, bilberry jam—if there were ever a snack to be offered in all the kingdom, then Olga was sure to find it, and come knocking loudly on Elsa's door about it.) The first time he laughingly made a comment about how startling it was to receive so many unexpected visits was also the last; all it took to silence him was one pointed, over-the-shoulder look from Elsa, and then a flood of Memory— _a screen, a shoulder, a stare_ —came rushing back. He endured the interruptions with a smile, after that.

( _“Besides,_ ” Elsa argued, fondly, though there wasn't much to argue about. _“She's just... worried about me._ ”)

And Olga wasn't the only one. Pavel and some of his staff would often leave small vases of fresh flowers at her door— _silently_ , Jack noted, _no knocking, no note_ —and would often wave to her if she caught sight of them through her window. Elsa's meals often arrived to her bedroom with an extra helping of sweets or a hot pot of tea— _extra warm_ —and every so often, small, hand-sewn pillows with rosemaling hearts would be left upon her bed, like gifts. To Elsa, it was a series of kind gestures from kind people who were offering their support; to Jack, it appeared that Elsa's absence from the Summit had, indeed, been noticed.

The official invitations for Anna's grand ball were sent on the day of her fifteenth birthday, which sent the town into a genuine tizzy; Jack and Elsa could hear the riotous celebrations that night from her open window, where they sat and drank in the late summer breeze. The faraway streets were glowing with late night oil, and Elsa watched the tiny dots of light flicker with a small smile on her face, with her chin rested upon her knees. ( _“This will be the last,”_ Elsa made a promise to the wind. _“The last birthday that she celebrates without me.”_ )

Jack had looked across the space between their feet, his chin rested upon his knees, and watched the familiar glow of moonlight dance in her hair with a smile was on his face. He believed her.

Anna started singing again, louder and more often than ever before. (To the portraits in the gallery or the staff among the castle—it didn't matter; Anna twirled and danced her way through the halls all day long.) Her voice could be heard from the heart of the kitchens, where the chefs shook their heads and chuckled, or out in the gardens, where Pavel hummed along. Jack would lean against the hedges in the inner-courtyard while she admired the flowers— _staff swung over his shoulder, grin caught crooked_ —and laugh at the most incredible, endearing things that came out of her mouth. ( _For the first time in—? What—forever?_ And Jack couldn't help it, couldn't help thinking—

Like Anna knew what _forever_ meant.)

. * * * .

  
The Summit was a great success, and Arendelle was rewarded with lower taxes and greater promise of valuable imports; the alliance between the kingdom and the Southern Isles was assuredly stronger than ever, and planning for the next year's Summit was already underway. Jack watched Elsa's face carefully as Olga told her the news, that there would be another celebration of nations in mid-July... Elsa listened with unfailing politeness, but both Jack and Olga seemed perturbed— _Olga, perplexed; Jack, cautious_ —about her lack of reaction.

What _did_ garner a reaction, however—for Elsa, and every other member of the kingdom—was the happy announcement of Princess Rapunzel's engagement to none other than Eugene Fitzherbert, the peasant-thief once known as Flynn Rider. Jack couldn't read the look on her face— _the emotion, trapped in her wide eyes_ —any more than he could make sense of Olga's babbling about Corona and the Southern Isles working together to prepare for both events. ( _“How wonderful—just a string of parties, isn't it? The Summit, the wedding—and Anna's ball, not long after! The other nations will need time to recuperate before traveling so far north to Arendelle, of course, especially after two major events, but—lucky for us, darling—the Kings of the South have decided to host their celebrations in close succession! After all, Corona is only a stone's throw from the Isles! The journey will be much longer for the rest of us, of course, but all for the good of the cause! And what fun, too! Why—the whole southern celebration will take half the month, I'd bet!_

 _Two whole weeks!”_ )

Elsa spent the rest of the evening staring at the dying candlelight upon her desk, with her feet tucked close in her chair. A piece of blank parchment laid open before her, along with her ink and quill, an elegant envelope and her wax seal, but she never touched a word to the page.

Jack lingered by the windowsill with a book, close by, just in case.

It was made clear to Anna early on that she would not be attending the Summit or the wedding, but this year, Anna found it a much easier pill to swallow; she danced through the halls in her summer dress, bright and hopeful, and Dreaming.

. * * * .

He spent many moments of his free time imagining Tooth's face, and all the ways that he was going to try to be better to her from now on. (To _all_ of the Guardians, but especially Tooth.) He was going to make greater efforts to check in on her more, and see how she was doing. Bring her more gifts, cheer her up—make her _laugh_ more. Make sure she was being fed and getting time to rest and being given a moment to actually _breathe_ every once in a while. Seriously. He didn't know how the hell she did it, every single day and night, for _centuries._ She was fucking incredible.

Since his little flash of charm with Toothiana at the Guardian meeting a few weeks prior, Bunny had been sending Jack the most curious looks; he didn't say anything, of course, because Bunny actually minded his own business—more often than not—especially if he wasn't all that interested in sticking himself into a messy situation. Especiallya messily romantic one. _Especially_ one that had already been almost a decade in the making and wasn't any closer to being finished. Anyway, Bunny didn't ask and Jack didn't offer anything up, but he could tell that the Pooka was curious. Hell— _Jack_ was curious.

( _Like—so what if Jack had recently realized that he actually liked to flirt, a little? He'd only done it once or twice—just a bit. A little attention never killed anybody._

 _Right?_ )

And every so often, Bunny _did_ still occasionally rib him about the Queen, which was practically _absurd_ , at this point; when Jack looked back over the years—if he looked hard enough—Jack truly could see what had drawn him to the Queen in the first place.

But those days were long gone.

. * * * .

Anna's dance lessons were going swimmingly, if the perpetual sound of clattering armor was anything to go by, and Jack physically _itched_ with the urge to unveil himself and teach her a proper waltz. Her father was a fine teacher, if not a little formal— _note: impossibly formal_ —and though he was warm and doting, he of course could never stay for very long. ( _Jack pretended, most days, like Anna did, that they didn't notice the clouds in his eyes as he excused himself to leave; the Memories, perhaps, of another dance, another ball—)_

 _(Another  
daughter. _ )

But Anna was determined. What Pavel lacked in technique he certainly made up for in exuberance, and there was definitely more than one occasion in which Olga commandeered the entire staff to help Princess Anna practice for her grand introduction. Jack realized, with some measure of alarm, that the entire staff could fit in the small alcove off of the western wing. He'd never quite realized, before: there were so few of them.

(And then one day, the startled question, “ _How in the_ world _did Elsa_ learn _this all by herself?_ ”

Jack smiled to himself, heartbroken and pleased, because Anna, of course, would never know.)

. * * * .

Eventually, the nights cooled and the winds began to change; Jack could taste the coming of the new seasons with a prickle on his tongue, like a glass of Tooth's finest juice. The end of August brought another New Moon, in which Jack realized that they'd settled into something of a routine; Bunnymund visited Arendelle in the early morning— _between his nightmarish rounds in the nighttime of Berk_ —and left her with a new box of covertly-magical sugar cubes, along with strict instructions to _drink up_. Elsa, quick enough catch on, but trusting enough to not question him—directly, anyway—cordially obliged.

Jack spent another grueling twenty-some hours racing across time and space, ensuring that Teeth were collected, that Memories were stored, and that things were running smoothly. Back at North's workshop, the yetis were hard at work marking and detailing potential sinkhole sightings— _in caves and forests and mountains_ —and keeping sharp watch over the Moonstone. The other Guardians all had their duties, and Jack had his, and then— _after Jack had nearly run himself into the ground, after the Guardians had reconvened at the Pole, after it was confirmed that all two-hundred and seventeen-thousand, six-hundred and forty-two Teeth had been safely collected and stored_ —North would look to Jack as if to say, _Go_.

Jack didn't need to be told twice.

He was in Arendelle in a heartbeat, and he and Elsa spent the night wide-awake, lounging on the bed or the floor or at the window, waiting for the dawn.

There was a definite taste of change in the air, but Jack couldn't always put his finger on it. Elsa was sometimes quiet in ways that Jack thought even _he_ might not understand, but he was always there, waiting—just in case. ( _In case of what?_ He didn't always know.

Maybe it didn't matter.)

The King and Queen made a few final attempts to entreat their daughter into arranging a visit with the Sage from the North, but it was not to be had. Eventually, the chaos of summer gradually died down and, little by little, the slow fog of autumn came rolling in. The castle fell back into old routines, the townspeople prepared for harvest, and Anna went back to pretending that she did not have an older sister.

Jack and Elsa laughed and played with all the same exuberance that they had before, but Jack appreciated her happiness in ways he'd not been able to previously; with every grateful smile struck the memory of Elsa's tears; every breath of her breathless laughter dizzied his head, filing it to the brim, and with it rang an echo of bitter laughter, laced with disappointment; every smirk was a victory that he felt in the flip of his stomach, every playful shove brought the sharp reminder of nails biting into the fabric at his chest, every sigh, every scoff, every special tick. Jack was close even when he didn't need to be— _shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee, back-to-back, hand-to-hand_ —and Elsa, he noticed, didn't seem to mind.

Jack admitted it to himself, each and every day: things had changed. New responsibilities, greater risks, _more_ reasons to protect. A new assignment on the horizon. A new plan of attack, both for the Guardians— _and_ for Elsa. More reasons to train, to practice, to explore. New things to look forward to—and not just fancy parties across the sea, or talking social-politics—but important things. _Real_ things. Like strengthening Elsa's powers, and seeing her sister. There was more at stake now, and more factors at play—things like determination and slightly broken hearts, the fading edges of disappointment and guarded expectations. Just a tiny bit of jade, tinted to the color of Elsa's Hope.

And one cloudy morning, there came a whisper, soft and clear: _Grow up, Jack_.

The voice he heard was not his mother's, or Bunny's, or Tooth's, or even North's.

It was his.

. * * * .

 


	128. - heedless of -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/15/14_. Also! This story has officially reached 900+ kudos, 500+ comments, and is nearing the 100 mark for bookmarks! Thanks again, everyone!!

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- heedless of -_  
  
. * * * .

  
Jack was in a particularly good mood.  
  
Granted, the next New Moon was only two weeks away, and there was a lot of shit to still sort through, but Jack was learning how to truly appreciate the lulls between the storms. For example—just the other day, he'd gotten Tooth to eat a decent meal by Guardian-napping her for an impromptu picnic. He played sand tennis with Sandy for a half hour over the coastal deserts of Peru. He helped Bunny magic up some new boulder friends, and he even helped shovel some of the snow from the sleigh's landing zone at North's workshop. He'd created snow days in one hundred and forty-seven districts in South America within the last three days alone. He'd even visited Sophie, now in college with an apartment of her own, and left some early morning frost for her to find. ( _The Northern Summer was almost over_.) Bunny and North had devised a plan that would soon be put into action. Jack was wrapping his head around the idea of starting his next assignment so soon—and wasn't _thrilled_ with the idea, but he didn't think he really hated it, either. The King and Queen had officially stopped bothering them about the Sage, for the time being. Elsa was pretty happy. It was a good day.  
  
He was also pretty proud of what little flirting he'd accomplished with Tooth, if he did say so himself.  
  
“What on earth are you smirking to yourself about over there?”  
  
Jack glanced over from his lazy sprawl at the window sill, smirk still firmly in place. At one point or another, he'd thrown an arm up under his head to lend some fluff from the worn-down pillow; he liked the effect it probably added to his dashing grin.  
  
“Wouldn't _you_ like to know.”  
  
Elsa rolled her eyes and immediately returned to the notes she was marking in the margins of her book. Jack didn't know what the book was about, but she'd been in that desk chair all afternoon. She wasn't even using the desk. _Just_ —curled her feet up onto the seat with her, and rested the book in her lap, desk forgotten. ( _“Becoming quite the deviant, I see_ ,” he'd teased, and had nearly taken an ice-rock to the shoulder for it.)  
  
Jack tried to return to the idle image he'd crafted so carefully from just a few minutes before, but it was already too late. Reluctantly, Jack twisted himself back around to peer past the jut in the wall and watch what she was doing. She was so focused.  
  
“Is that your journal?” Jack asked suddenly, eyes caught on a shock of familiar blue.  
  
Elsa's gaze darted up, surprised; the small itching of mischief inside him—growing steadily louder with every peaceful day—keened with satisfaction. Her lips pressed together, firmly.  
  
“It is,” she admitted, and Jack noticed very pointedly when her bare fingers swept gently down the page. “I'm nearly out of pages, I fear.”  
  
It was the perfect opportunity to tease her good-naturedly about her excessive use of ink, or to mention the low quality of North's hand-stitched pages—neither of which would actually evoke a laugh, but they'd still garner him the most delightful glare—and then, suddenly, Jack realized that he wasn't actually interested in making those comments at all.  
  
With a quick twist, he was back on his feet in midair and swiftly to her side, all in the short span of a few sluggish blinks. When Elsa belatedly realized that he was hovering rather curiously over her shoulder, she gripped the cover tight with her fingers, and pressed the open pages flush against her chest. “Jack Frost,” she began, eyebrow arcing dangerously. “ _What_ , pray tell, do you think you're doing?”  
  
“What?” he shrugged innocently, reclining back onto a shelf of air. She still had to look up at him, when he stretched his bent elbow out to the side, and rested his skull in his hand. “I'm not allowed to hang out while you're jotting down some thoughts in your journal?” Her glare was deadpan.  
  
“You are not usually _this_ transparent, Jack Frost.”  
  
A bemused smile quirked his lips. “I should hope not,” he answered softly, grinning.  
  
Elsa looked annoyed at how little annoyed _he_ looked, which was amusing in and of itself; what was _not_ amusing, however, was just how tightly she was still guarding that journal.  
  
“Oh, come on, Elsa—you know I wouldn't _actually_ look into any of your stuff without your explicit permission.”  
  
He did not, by any means, understand why that merited a blush.  
  
And it—it wasn't the first time Jack had seen a bit of color on her cheeks—e _ither from a bit of flattery by some southern-bred Prince, or the flush of angry, blotchy red from tear-stained tracks_ —but the sight of it now, for some reason, had Jack's own cheeks warming, too.  
  
He flipped over to his back quickly, crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling; a stubborn, well-concealed effort to hide the color on his face. “Seriously, have a little faith in me, will you?” he tossed out, just for good measure, and locked eyes with the ceiling the way he used to do when he was play-pretending to be upset with his little sister. ( _Whoah_ , Jack's eyes widened. _Where did that—?_ )  
  
“Forgive me, Jack,” she laughed, startling him from his reverie, “but after this many years, I only have faith in excess, as you are very well aware.”  
  
When Jack slowly twisted his head down to look at her, the grin that peered back up at him was warm and _fond_ , and the slightest bit teasing. Affection bubbled strongly in his chest, and he grinned back down at her, inordinately pleased. Happiness made him relaxed.  
  
Relaxation made him bold.  
  
The shelf of air fell out from beneath him, slowly floating him down until he was sat in an invisible seat before her, cross-legged with pointed elbows digging into the insides of his knees. Elsa, to her credit, did not flinch in the slightest. Jack grinned with pride.  
  
“What have you been writing about me?”  
  
A flurry of fabric swished past him as Elsa stood tall from her chair, snapping her journal shut. She held it in her hands like a brick, and the only reason she had probably not yet thrown it at him was the added insurance policy of keeping it away from his prying hands. (Not that would he would, like, ever _actually_ infringe upon her privacy like that. She knew that. But still.  
  
Elsa wasn't the only curious one.)  
  
“What gives you the impression that I've mentioned you at all?”  
  
_Ouch_. “Elsa, please. You've had that journal for how many years? I'm sure I managed to sneak my way in there somehow.”  
  
“As you tend to.”  
  
Was he supposed to be flattered, or insulted? He asked her.  
  
“Whichever one you are so inclined to choose, I suppose.”  
  
Jack frowned. “Well, that's not much fun.”  
  
“You rarely are.”  
  
“ _Ouch,_ ” Jack hissed, mouth wide with a cocksure grin as he clutched dramatically at his chest. He ignored the actual sting. “Such biting words for such a peaceful morning.”  
  
Elsa glanced back over her shoulder as she slid open a drawer in her bedside table, where she carefully tucked the journal away. A brow arched questioningly— _challengingly—_ but she otherwise said nothing.  
  
Until she strode toward the music player, and a lively tune began drifting out from the depths of whatever archaic mechanisms were in there. “I don't know if I believe that you _know_ the meaning of a peaceful morning, Jack Frost,” she quipped, and twisted herself to face him. He was still dawdling in midair, and was starting to feel a little silly about it.  
  
“I resent that,” he said, perhaps a beat too late.  
  
Elsa dipped into a graceful curtsy, smiling impishly up at him all the while. “Would you like to dance, Jack Frost? Or are you still determined to avoid it at all costs?”  
  
Jack smiled back, pleased by the playfulness in her tone. He was half-a-second away from a jest, or proposing a trade—(“ _Are you perchance willing enough to sing, in exchange?_ ”)—when he was suddenly caught in a supposedly-forgotten haze of Memory; he wasn't exactly thrilled about it, either.  
  
Because in that moment he should _not_ have been thinking about the defeated look on Prince Sideburns' face as he politely turned away yet another hopeful at the Summit's grand opening ball, or the way his had eyes glazed over as he stared across the ocean upon the terrace, completely oblivious to the celebration taking place inside. The balcony had looked eerily familiar to the one Jack had visualized for Elsa, for that stupid fantasy in which Elsa actually attended the Summit— _in which Elsa got everything her heart had ever wanted_ —and he was too distracted, at first, by the torchlight and the churning in his own gut, to realize that Henrik looked genuinely miserable.  
  
“Well?”  
  
Jack's eyes snapped up to meet Elsa's impatient ones, and with another flip-flop of his stomach, he let the Memory fade.  
  
“Your highness,” Jack grinned, and carefully disentangled himself to step onto the floor. “I would be delighted.”  
  
Elsa reached for his hand as he neared, and Jack smiled down at her, pleased to see her in such high spirits. But then she was very close—which shouldn't have been anything out of the realm of their ordinary, except it _was_ , because it had very purposely been some months since Jack had allowed himself any acceptable reason to place his hand on her hip. The briefest second of panic took root, then was quickly swept away by the familiar count of the dance, and the obvious release of tension in Elsa's small frame. Elsa was relaxed. _He_ could be relaxed, too.  
  
( _Keep talking_ , whispered a voice.)  
  
He opened his mouth to comply, but Elsa beat him to the punch.  
  
Poetry and politics, impressionism and geometry, this thing that she read about in one of Bunny's books called _physics_ , and more of that infernal Machiavelli; Elsa kept up a steady stream of conversation, almost to the point that Jack could hardly get a word in until she stopped for breath. It was as they were discussing the finer points of Corona's cuisine when Jack found himself recalling a time when Elsa would go hours without saying a word at all.  
  
He noticed Elsa staring at him strangely, just a second too late. Her tone was playful, accusatory, _suspicious—_ all of the things he'd come to expect these days. “What are you smirking about?”  
  
His grin was poised to say it— _wouldn't_ you _like to know—_ but then he felt the warm press of Elsa's fingers _slip_ across his shoulder— _so slight a move, she must not have noticed_ —until the stretch of her thumb was hot against the tendon in his throat, fingers curled gently over the crook of his neck.  
  
They'd stopped dancing, he realized.  
  
For how long, exactly—he didn't know, for he and Elsa were barely moving across the floor; gently, they swayed together near the empty hearth, heedless of the melody, or the proper steps, or the rhythm, and he suspected that they'd been that way for quite some time. They were not so much dancing as they were simply holding each other close.  
  
Jack found that he had nothing witty to say in response.

. * * * .


	129. - all Dreams -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/21/14_. Chapter sneak-attack. ;) Enjoy~

 

. * * * .  
  
 _(not)_  
 _\- all Dreams -_

. * * * .

“Elsa's been having nightmares.”

He'd meant to say _hello_ , at least, but somehow, this ended up being the first thing Jack said to him, before Sandy's feet even touched the ground. They were somewhere in the lush mountains of Vietnam, in a valley-field caught between two far-off villages, and Jack had meant to offer him a hand—or some company, even—but nerves were running a little ragged this evening ( _early morning, in Arendelle_ ), and Jack couldn't wait any longer. The Sandman's schedule had been a wreck for weeks now, and Jack had tried not to burden him for as long as possible, but Elsa's nights weren't getting any better.

Sandy regarded him with a few assessing blinks, surprised and disoriented. Jack _really_ hadn't meant to interrupt his momentum, but he just—he _really_ couldn't.

The wind swept around them, billowing the long blades of grass into his thighs, but then Sandy's eyes cleared as a bright, golden snowflake erupted into being over his head. _Elsa?_ he asked, alarmed. _What is it?_

Relief flooded through him, so much that his words nearly got stuck in his throat. “It's—she's barely slept a wink in weeks,” Jack explained, fighting hard to keep the raw edge from his voice. “ _Months_ , even. I thought—you know, with everything with the Summit and all that it—it might be normal, but it's not. There's something very different about the Dreams she's been having, and they're keeping her awake at night, and they're—they're like, really messing with her head, you know? She's not herself when she wakes up from them. Like—she was _fine_ , earlier. It was a normal day—it was a _good_ day—even if she got another letter from douchebag Henrik in the night post—and _now I'm rambling_ , I don’t fucking know, but the point is that she sounds like—like she's in pain, almost, when she's having them, or—I don't know. Or maybe it's just painful when she wakes up from them— _again_ , I don't know. That's why I need you—to do something about them, because this—this is really hard on her.”

Sandy's face took on a peculiar quality; pensive, definitely, and troubled, certainly, and something that Jack was sure was concern.

But then he said, _Jack_ , without any sand at all, and, _I'm afraid I can't interfere_.

Wait. _What?_

“What the hell?” Jack grit out, ignoring the bite of the wind on his cheeks. “Why not?”

 _It goes against my oath_ , Sandy explained with apology, but without remorse. Jack's eyes narrowed as Sandy raised a golden arm to the distant edge of the valley, where a village lied in peaceful slumber. Jack scowled. _My oath_ , Sandy reminded him, _to protect the private thoughts and feelings of each human_.

He couldn't help the ball of frustration welling up inside him. Did they think he was stupid or something? "I'm not asking to know what she's dreaming about! I know better than that, okay? Tooth and her oath, you and yours—I'm just—I'm letting you know that it's seriously affecting her. Because you've been super busy with other really important things, and probably haven't had much time to really consider her nightmares, because, like—they're supposedly not from Pitch—"

Sandy was shaking his head urgently, and Jack belatedly realized that Sandy had been trying to get a word in while Jack was rambling. "Uh. Sorry."

 _Jack_ , Sandy eyed him, very seriously, like he already knew what he was about to say would be difficult to convey, even with words. _Tell me—what makes you think Elsa is having nightmares?_

_Why do I think—?_

"Because I've been there!" Jack exclaimed. "I've seen what it's like when she's having one!"

 _A nightmare?_ Sandy pressed, strangely. _Is that what she has told you they are?_

(What the _fuck?_ )

“Well, yeah. She's never like, said it, but we talk about them sometimes. Recently. Just not—what's in them.”

He really did not like the look on Sandy's face.

 _Jack_ , Sandy began, cautious and solemn. _This may be difficult to understand, but I must tell you something important. First, I must ask you to consider something that may at first seem... unlikely. Unusual, even. I must ask you to consider the possibility that the nightmares you're imagining Elsa to have... may not necessarily be nightmares, to her._

He bit down the _first_ thing that came to mind, then nearly growled out, “What does that even mean?”

 _And secondly_ , Sandy shifted uneasily, _I must admit that I... no longer watch over her dreams._

A chill crept down his spine, unlike any of his own.

“You... _what?_ ”

Sandy plowed forward, determined to explain himself fully, as best he could. (And he'd _better_ , because Jack's fists were clenching at his sides, and his mouth was running dry, and his stomach was twisting itself into enough fucking knots to make enough fucking bows in North's fucking workshop to put the yetis _out of fucking business_ —) _There comes a time in every human's life where..... it is best that I... gracefully relinquish my hold._

“So you _abandon_ them?”

Sandy shook his head vehemently. _In some ways,_ he sternly argued, _the absence of my influence liberates them._

“From _what?_ ” he demanded.

Suddenly, Sandy looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 _Jack_ , he said carefully. _It is a matter of... honor. And decency. You see, I... no longer watch their Dreams in order to respect their... privacy._ He stared at him, waiting. _That is_ , Sandy coughed, silently, _their... modesty._

He blinked, not understanding.

 _You see… I am the Guardian of Childhood Dreams. Of Childhood Innocence,_ he said, pointedly, apparently deciding that Jack could handle whatever it was he was about to tell him. _And you might agree that… not all Dreams are... well. Innocent._

He would look back upon this moment later—days later, _years_ later, in hindsight—and wonder what the _hell_ had taken him _so fucking long to figure it out_.

“ _Holy_ —” Jack's entire body practically convulsed, eyes widening, stomach churning with realization, staff snapping violently out to the side. “You mean—? _Fuck_ — _!_ ” He twisted on the bare heels of his feet, long staff sweeping through the grass, turning them to icicles, rounding on the Sandman with wild eyes. “But that's not—I mean, _she's_ not—”

 _It is not an easy thing to reconcile_ , Sandy acknowledged calmly, carefully, like Jack was a twig that might be snapped—too much pressure and strain and everything, all at once. _The details shifting in your Memory... The signs that you once thought meant fear_ , Sandy mused, _when in truth, it was, perhaps, desire... What you once regarded as pain, instead may have very well been pleasure, or, perhaps—_

“ _Jesus_ , Sandy, what the fuck?! Where are you getting this from?”

 _We have all experienced these changes ourselves_ , Sandy pointed out, reasonably. _At different stages, in different times. Elsa is no different. And, truly,_ _Elsa has always been an avid reader,_ Sandy nodded sagely. _And she was always an, ah_... imaginative _child. If you think about it, this is merely a natural progression from—_

“ _Stop!_ Okay, just— _stop_ ,” Jack snapped, chest tight. “I get it.”

Sandy regarded him carefully. It looked an awful lot like pity.

 _It's not an easy change for any Guardian to accept_ , Sandy explained, as if this was something meant to be reassuring. (Was it? Jack didn't know. His chest felt tight, and his stomach felt sick, and his head was light and dizzy and heavy all at _fucking_ once.)

_It is always a difficult realization, and it may not necessarily get easier, but it's something that we learn how to deal with in time._

Not any easier? Ever? Was that supposed to be motivating? That's what they all kept telling him, and Jack was starting to wonder whether honesty really was the best policy.

It was with that frustration in mind that he shook off the darkness from his thoughts and hoarsely asked, "How long?"

Sandy waited, listening intently.

Clearing his throat, quietly, Jack clarified, "How long has it been since you stopped watching her Dreams?"

Sandy looked distinctly uncomfortable about having to share this answer.

Or rather—apologetic.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Years._

.

.

.

  
. * * * .


	130. - protective instincts -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/29/14_. Here we are! Three chapters tonight. They're supposed to be read together all at once, but I preferred them broken apart into three separate pieces. :) Enjoy!

 

. * * * .

 _\- protective instincts_ _-_

. * * * .

Jack was beside himself.

He would see Elsa later that day, and then what? _Was he_ —was he supposed to be able to look her in the eye, knowing what he knew, and pretend that nothing was amiss? Go on as if he were ignorant of this new, disturbing piece of knowledge? Act normal?

( _How?_ )

Jack kicked at the snow on one of the ledges of the North Mountain, where he was waiting, pacing. ( _Hiding._ ) His resolve told him that there had to be a responsible way of dealing with this, but determination could only take him so far alone; deciding to be a better Guardian and knowing _how_ to be were two totally separate things. He had to consider this carefully, from different angles. He had to think about this rationally.

Too bad the part of his brain responsible for his higher-level functioning had been rendered completely useless, overburdened and overwhelmed by the glittering bomb of _Guess what! Elsa’s nightmares aren’t actually nightmares so much as they are fantasies in which she_ —  
  
Nope.  
  
N o p e.

( _Take some time_ , Sandy had graciously advised, sending little Jack Frost on his way. _Give yourself the space you need to process._ )

 _Yeah_ , thought Jack, scathingly. Easier said than done.

(And for fuck's sake, it was all said in _sand._ )

His bare feet carved trenches into the snow— _back and forth, back and forth_ —thoughts battling between brainstorming and panicking, consistently ignoring that tiny outcry of outright denial lingering in the back of his mind. And incredulousness. And curiosity and alarm. And dread.

Lots and lots of dread.

Because what would Elsa say if she knew what he knew? _She'd_ —she'd be mortified. This was the worst invasion of privacy he'd ever committed—worse than anything he'd ever done before—and it was totally not his business and _holy mother of fractal_ , this was even worse than that time he flew in while she was getting measured for her new clothes.

( _Well._ )

 _Maybe_ —not by much.

( _Maybe not?_ )

 _No._ It was definitely worse—these were her _Dreams._ They were supposed to be safe places and private and secret and not, by any means, fodder for Jack Frost's delightful insecurity. Fuel for him to spend hours, _wondering._

And it hadn't even been his choice! (His _fault_!) He hadn’t _asked_ to be let in on this little secret— _this dark, deep ocean of secrets_ —and he didn’t—okay, well, he sorta _did_ ask to be let in, but he didn’t _know_ what he was actually asking to be let in on. He was just—he was _worried_ and—he’d been _so sure_ that they were nightmares, and—and he wouldn’t have ever considered actually asking Sandy to intrude upon that kind of privacy had he—had he _what_?  
  
There’d been a point to that train of thought, somewhere, but Jack suddenly couldn’t remember what it was.

 _Maybe_ —maybe the point was that he didn't even _know_ anything, really, for sure, about the exact nature of Elsa’s Dreams— _only had his imagination, which was twelve times as worse_ —and he wouldn't actually know anything— _the details—_ not ever, because this _was_ private _,_ and Jack whole-heartedly intended to keep it that way. This was _not_ his business. Jack had dedicated himself to Elsa’s well-being for decades, had known his responsibilities to her laughter for _years_ , inside and out, and this, he knew, was not in his job description. It was in Sandy's.

( _Not anymore._ )

Jack ignored that.

For years, he’d stood Guard by the window, while she slept. He’d played the role of Confidant, and Distraction, and Friend. He'd been a Protector, a Mentor. A Jester and Companion. He’d been a Dance Partner and a Chess Opponent, and a Sounding Board and even on one regrettable, never-to-be-mentioned occasion a Knit-Scarf Model and the _point_ was that Jack had been whatever he’d needed to be, for Elsa.  
  
So.  
  
Now the question was— _whispered, on the wind_ —  
  
What did Elsa need now _?_

. * * * .

Hours later, Jack was still no closer to finding his answer.

Of course, Jack Frost had never truly known _exactly_ what he was supposed to do. (At least, not in the way that the others always seemed to know, through eons of experience.) He’d always felt a little lost, but it usually turned out okay.( _It was okay because he wasn’t alone anymore, he was a Guardian, they were in this together_.) It was okay because he was usually pretty quick on his feet, and he had help.

But this?

( _Was Elsa even_  
the same person,  
anymore?)

And it was exactly _those_ kinds of stupid-ass thoughts that was making this take so damn long.  
  
Jack breathed _in_ , then _out_ , deep and controlled, the way he sometimes saw the yetis trying to coach North to do. ( _The same way Elsa did, when she started to feel upset._ ) Enough of this. Jack had protective instincts a mile deep and a mile wide—instincts that had always felt more second nature than _breathing_ —and he had wrangled with them for enough centuries to know that _he_ , Jack Frost— _Jackson Overland_ —impulsive fucker that he was—had followed his instincts to a deep, golden-glittered valley in the mountains of Vietnam, and could _not_ be held at fault for acting upon the _same_ instincts that had saved the world, had defeated Pitch, had saved his sister.

( _Got you killed_.)  
  
“Fuck off,” said Jack to no one, naught but the frightful tundra air. The point was that he’d gone to Sandy out of concern for Elsa’s safety and, as it’d turned out, Elsa _was_ safe. ( _For now_.) And Sandy—well.

Jack frowned, mulling it over.

He _could_ be upset that Sandy… shared this knowledge with him. ( _It wasn’t Sandy’s to give_ —he should know that, better than anyone.) But... _had_ Sandy truly revealed anything that Jack hadn’t already known?

Jack wondered.  
  
The wind was strong and the chill was harsh, but he liked the feel of it over his cheeks, the back of his neck, through his hair; cold, familiar comfort, as bracing as it was soothing. Jack stilled, letting the wind whip at his face.

( _Wondering._ )

For three centuries, Jack Frost had shied away from responsibility— _he’d been good at hiding from it, and living by it, and dying for it, even if he didn't remember it right away_ —but Jack Frost had never once questioned his commitment to his first assignment, not since the first day he learned of it, standing in the shining wake of the moonstone as light spilled upon the floor, since the first moment he saw the glow. He was a Guardian, who guarded many things. Elsa’s safety? _Definitely_. Elsa’s happiness? Always.  
  
Elsa’s Dreams?  
  
Slowly, Jack’s eyes narrowed.  
  
He didn’t know what to think, anymore.  
  
Before leaving the valley, Sandy had generously narrowed it down for Jack, perhaps to relieve him of some of the dread he must have seen on his face. Once the Sandman had looked back over the previous months more carefully, he’d determined that it'd actually been just a little over a year since he had last influenced her Dreams.

His last visit had ended right around her sixteenth birthday.

Which—which made _sense_. Obviously. And Jack was cross with himself that he hadn't figured it out on his own. (That he _kept_ wanting to ask Sandy to clarify _—feet rooted to the grassy sea in that dark, glowing valley—_ and that Sandy kept hinting that her Dreams had been _—precocious—_ even before that.) But of course Elsa would have started— _losing—_ some, _ah_ —innocence, on her sixteenth birthday. That was the whole point of the ball, wasn't it? To recognize her as a young woman, or an eligible maiden, or a Princess-of-age, or something?  
  
It _—_ it made sense.

.* * * .

Except.  
  
Except Jack had barely allowed himself to admit _his_ existence as… _ah_.  
  
Except, until recently _—_ as in, _very_ , very recently _—_ Jack hadn’t ever actually had the will or means or _opportunity_ to admit _his_ existence as a sexual creature, so _how_ in the _fuck_ was he supposed to acknowledge the same for—for _Elsa_?

. * * * .

Easy.

He just wasn't going to.

. * * * .


	131. - the truth -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/29/14_. More **g o r g e o u s** fanart from **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)**! You can check out her angsty artwork [here](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/98020219427/chickensaredoodling-so-im-not-dead-just). Thanks again! <3 <3

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- the truth -_  
  
.* * * .  


Except Jack's planning was never really the finest strategizing in the books—he was more of a _think-on-your-feet_ kind of guy—and upon seeing Elsa's bright face for the first time since the Realization, Jack immediately realized just how much of a stupid, _stupid_ fool-hearty plan it truly was.

She greeted him through the window with a curious laugh, remarking upon his _dazed countenance_ with some quip that he only barely registered, and when she reached for the sleeve of his hoodie to pull his floating, useless, rigid self through the open window, Jack's sudden haste to slip past her had him nearly smash his elbow into the mortar of the castle wall. It was an awkward moment, but then her eyes lit with amusement as his heart pounded madly in his chest, and then she was rolling her eyes and laughing as she ushered him toward game of self-opposed chess, but Jack felt his face grow hot, and his stomach turn cold, and all he could think, in that moment—for the rest of the hour, for the whole afternoon—was, _Who were you kissing in your Dream last night?_

. * * * .

The rest of the evening passed by in similar shades of gloom, but Jack didn't know what to do about it.

Because Elsa had definitely caught onto his strange behavior, and Jack was definitely trying to pretend that he hadn't noticed that _she’d_ noticed, and it was just a whole lot of dancing around—the _issue_ , not each other, _no—_ and frankly, Jack was sort of angry about the whole fucking situation.  
  
All over again.

(Like _why_ , for instance, was he in this awkward-as-hell position in the first place? He got that, as a Guardian, he was responsible for knowing the truth, and that he was _bound_ to figure it all out, anyway, not to mention _—as someone who was arguably, theoretically close to four hundred-years-old—_ he probably shouldn’t have been thinking so blindly— _couldn't pretend forever, Frost—_ but did Sandy really _have_ to tell him then, at that very moment?)

But he squashed those thoughts down as soon as they surfaced. In the distant part of his mind—one of the few rational pieces left, one of the few remaining _reasonable_ corners of his brain—Jack _had_ known that this would happen. (He'd always known.) He should have been _grateful_ that he was even around to endure it, that he was still there, that she still Believed, that he could still share her life and all of the change it offered; Elsa was supposed to grow up and get married and have children and he was _not_ naïve—he'd expected this. He _wanted_ this for her.

Except now it was happening, and Jack didn't know what the fuck to do about it, or how to feel about it, because half the time when Jack looked at her, he still saw the little girl he'd protected against a Nightmare when she was seven-years-old— _or the six-year-old he'd found out alone on the balcony in the middle of the night; the thirteen-year-old who made a Promise that he never expected her to be able to keep_ —and sometimes he _missed_ that little girl, and her quiet spirit and her sharp mind, and how every word from her mouth felt like a prize. A gift, even.

And then the other half of the time, Jack saw what was right in front of him.

( _What most_  
 _people_  
 _never got to_  
 _see_.)  


He saw, clearly, that he spent his precious free time with a beautiful, intelligent young woman who was as quick as she was captivating, as polite as she was ruthless (as competitive as _he_ was), who loved to dance and read and learn and who liked lemon cakes and no longer covered her laugh with her hand. A girl who liked stories and slept by the window so she could feel the night air on her skin, who liked to hold his hand and liked to play Slapjack and didn't mind his chill, who sometimes let him play with her fingers as they played chess or while she read, who sang for no one but the wind or empty hearth. A girl who'd never asked for much— _and who'd given a lot_ —who curled into herself while she slept— _who still sometimes made herself take up as little space as possible, often without realizing it_ —who was articulate and educated, and spoke with passion and conviction— _or sometimes without any words at all_ —who had big, expressive eyes and freckled cheeks and a slim waist and wide hips and— _curves, ones he had pretended not to notice—_ who blushed and accepted suitors and wrote letters to Princes across the sea and had Dreams that drove Sandy out with their godforsaken maturity and _how,_ the fuck, was _any_ of this _okay?_

And then finally _—after many strenuous hours of careful, pointed avoidance on the matter—_ Jack was struck by the one detail that he'd been struggling all the while to ignore.

(He'd been so stuck on the _how_ , at first,  
that he’d not given any thought as to the _who_.)

Nausea churned his stomach.

Late into the evening, Jack tried to console himself with the Memory that there were countless young men at her introductory ball, and that Elsa had danced with all of them. She could have been Dreaming about any number of them _—an endless parade of fine bachelors with crowns and titles, pressed suit coats and all—_ but truly, in his heart, he knew the truth.

It was Henrik.

. * * * .

 


	132. - no promises -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/29/14_. Last one for tonight! Thank you again for all of your beautiful comments! They totally make my day. And we're almost to 1,000 kudos! And 100 bookmarks! :D :D THANK YOU.  <3 <3

 

. * * * .

_\- no promises_ -

. * * * .

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“Are you all right?”  
  
“What? Yeah—I'm fine.”  
  
“Are you sure? I spoke and you just jumped two feet into the air.”  
  
“Nah. I'm fine.”

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“Jack.”  


“What.”

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“Jack.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“You're not looking at me.”  
  
“So? I'm workin' on something.”  
  
“With _that_ much concentration?”  
  
“It's an important something.”  
  
“Jack, you don't even respond to Guardian Summons with this much focus.”  
  
“That's because I haven't been able to trust a stupid Summons light show  
since the elves figured out how to release the Aurora.”  
  
“Blaming the elves again? Really?”  
  
“They _deserve_ it and you know it.”  
  
“Are we really going to argue about elves?”  
  
“You started it.”  
  
“You know what? Never mind. Please continue with whatever it is that you're doing.  
It's obviously more important than whatever it is that I have to say, so—by all means. Continue.”  
  
“Hey, I'm listening, all right?”  
  
“Well, it's certainly hard to tell, what with this spectacular view I have of the side of your face.”  
  
“ _Hey—_ that's my good side.”  
  
“Wonderful. Because I truly love staring at your ear while we talk. Superb.”  
  
“You want—fine. Here. You happy now?”  
  
“Not now that you're _glaring_.”  
  
“ _You're_ glaring.”  
  
“Yes, and you would have known that I've _been_ glaring for quite some time, if you'd only been looking. What's wrong?”  
  
“What's—? Oh, _I don't know_ , maybe it's just—”  
  
“And don't you dare feed me some snappy remark, Jack Frost, because I will freeze the ground out from underneath you in a heartbeat without so much as _blinking_ , so help me Queen Elsana of Old.”  
  
“I _wasn't_. All right? I was just gonna say... I don't know. It's... been a rough day.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah.”

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“Does it have anything to do with why Bunny keeps feeding me sugar on the New Moon?”  
  
“Hah. No.”

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“Are you going to _tell_ me why Bunny keeps feeding me sugar on the New Moon?”  
  
“Hah. _No_. That's between you and Bunny.”  
  
"Indeed. What's the point of having a Guardian if he won't protect you from nefarious plots?”  
  
“Hmm... Yeah, I don't think I'll need to be protecting you from any tea.”  
  
“Will you be protecting me from boredom?”

 

Jack glanced over to her, surprised. And suspicious. Elsa looked perfectly normal as she leaned toward him, patient and impatient and playful. It was a perfectly reasonably question, considering he was supposedly the Guardian of Fun, and yet Jack couldn't shake the very strange feeling that her words had cut down his spine.

This felt like a trick.

His mischief alarm was ringing somewhere in the back of his mind, like there was some sort of underlying meaning behind her perfectly simple question, but paranoia did that to you, he supposed. It didn't help that the ringing was being drowned out by the perpetual roar in his ears, the one that kept hissing _Henrik_.

He shot to his feet before he knew what he was doing, and for once, Elsa had expected his next move just as much as he had; she jerked back by the sudden movement, looking to him in surprise, and Jack—finally in control of himself, for once—already had an easy grin slapped convincingly to his face.

“Well, I wouldn't be much of a teacher if I kept doing stuff for you all the time, now would I?” he quipped, easy and light, and yanked his staff from where it rested against the wall by the window. With a flourish, Jack swung the staff onto his shoulders in a wide, glorious arc, and let his arms dangle from the easy shelf it created. Elsa paused, watching him— _calculating_ —and then smiled a little, close-lipped but genuine.

“I suppose you're absolutely right,” she agreed, though it felt more like a parry than a simple response. Jack's demeanor may have _looked_ easygoing, but his senses were still spiked, and his guard was not down. “Perhaps I should be left to my own devices for a day or two,” Elsa teased, “Just to see how I fare.”

There it was. The banter he'd been expecting. _I'm sure you could manage_ , was what he wanted to say. Or maybe some quip about building another replica of Beijing, and how a day or two may not have been enough. Or even something more daring, like, _What, so you can write about me in your journal some more?_  
  
It was getting dark out.

“If you'd like,” Jack said instead, and the sudden simplicity of it all was a little overwhelming; the Dreams, the growing up, the invisible but certain pull of time. (Maybe it _would_ do them some good to spend a few days apart... Winter was steadily approaching, and he _was_ needed elsewhere, after all.) In some ways, it all seemed... so straightforward now.

Elsa, for her part, seemed taken aback.

After a long moment, her head tilted carefully to the side. “You're not in the mood for games,” Elsa quietly observed.

Jack blinked at that, ignoring the strain in his chest at her muted disappointment. “I'm always in the mood for games.”

“Perhaps,” Elsa replied politely. “Just not our usual ones.”

As sensible as it'd all seemed in his head, it actually sounded horrible when it was coming out of her mouth. He opened his to speak, but Elsa gave his shoulder a tiny shove before he could manage a word; off-balanced and unprepared, Jack stumbled backwards. Naturally, she grinned.

“All right, go on,” she dismissed him, smilingly, and then she was already turning toward her desk. “I suppose you're right. Go tend to your windows and snowy days.”

“Snow days,” Jack answered back, unthinkingly.

“I'm afraid I fail to see the difference,” she laughed, reaching for her journal. _Ah_. Great. “Will I see you before the New Moon?”

The New Moon? “That's still another week or two away,” Jack replied, confused. They didn't need _that_ much time, did they?

“So is that a yes, then?”

“Well, yeah,” said Jack, watching as she arranged her desk in order to write. He'd meant for it to come out with more _obviously_ in his tone, but he just ended up sounding a little uncertain, himself. “I can be back in a day or two.”

“All right,” Elsa sat down, smiling at him sweetly over her shoulder. “I'll see you then.”

So...

“All... right,” Jack nodded slowly. So. That was that? He was just gonna leave now? “I'll, uh... I'll see you.” Then, because it all felt a little too stilted, Jack walked himself to the window backwards, with just the tiniest bit of strut. And then, _weirdly_ , because Jack had nothing else better to say, he playfully called back, “Just... try not to take in any other winter sprites while I'm gone, yeah?”

Elsa laughed, real and bright, and Jack's stomach somersaulted with a sharp stab of relief.

Her eyes were glinting warmly with mischief, though _,_ when she twisted herself in her chair to bid him final farewell.

“No promises,” she warned, softly.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before slipping out the window.

. * * * .

 


	133. - keeping tabs -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/5/14_.

 

. * * * . 

_\- keeping tabs -_

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**. G R O W T H .**

 

Young Hiro was growing more and more entrenched in the world of underground bot fighting with each passing week and, although Jack knew what robots were, he still didn't really get what bot fighting actually _was_ —so he researched. (Jack and Bunny didn't trust the Internet the way the Yetis did, but he had to admit: it proved helpful enough—at least, in their furry, capable hands. And _no,_ Jack wasn't that old; he knew that the Internet wasn't actually a tangible thing, it was just an expression for crying out loud, okay, _just give him a fucking br_ —) Jack wasn't sure he liked most of what he found, but, from what he _could_ see, it looked like Hiro's older brother didn't much like it either. So, it was a start.

He didn't visit Hiro yet— _because that's not how it works_ —but keeping tabs— _that,_ he could do. It kept him focused. 

Or better yet—

Distracted.

. * * * .  


Toothiana was usually split between pure brightness and sheer exhaustion, sometimes all within the same minute. 

He paid her a few more unexpected visits, and even a few planned ones. She never seemed to have any time, but she always made some for him.

Which made him feel a little guilty, but Toothiana merely laughed off his concern. ( _“Jack, when you've been alive as long as I have, you learn how time should_ really _be spent.”_ )

On those days and nights, Jack and Toothiana traveled the world together, saving the tooth-collecting of the wintry hemispheres for themselves. (The baby teeth didn't exactly mind being assigned to the tropics as a result. Consequently, this new development didn't _exactly_ do anything to calm the fluttery storm of overexcited wings he encountered upon each and every arrival at the Golden Palace, but hey—when you're a handsome winter sprite who's saved the world and keeps the Mama Fairy happy and practically sends her magical employees on a warm, working vacation— _and_ happens to have a dashing smile to boot—really, there's not a whole lot that can be done. )

So he earned more favor among Tooth's warm and happy army, kept Toothiana company on her late nights into the coldest realms, and even got some of his own duties taken care of along the way.

 _Not too bad_ , if he did say so, himself.

. * * * .

Sandy was super apologetic about the whole ordeal for days, though it really wasn't necessary.

Of course, it took a couple (hundred) reassurances to prove to Sandy that he was all right. Even if the guy didn't _say_ anything, Jack could tell that he was worried, which was just as heart-warming as it was annoying. (Seriously. Jack wasn’t gonna break _that_ easily.) And Sandy could always be trusted to keep quiet on private matters, so it wasn't like he had to worry so much about any of this new, ah, _information_ falling into Bunny's teasing hands. That was the last thing Jack needed. ( _What's that, Jack?_ he could almost hear him say.  
  
 _Embarrassed by a little human nature?_ )

The other Guardians would have been understanding, of course, in that this sorta-arguably- _life-changing_ transition would be hard for anybody, any Guardian—not just him. (But for anybody _else_ , though, it would have been a point of sympathetic concern; as far as _Jack_ was concerned, the other Guardians would see this as straight-up, proudly-earned, jackpot-level teasing- _ammo._ )And while Jack was no child, this topic _still_ did not, by any means, sit well with him. If Sandy wasn't gonna press him to share this newfound insight with the others—if they hadn’t already _guessed,_ themselves—then nope, no way in hell was it ever getting past _his_ lips.

They would be of absolutely no help; he was entirely sure of this.

(But then, every so often, Jack would think back to a night filled with lanterns and Hope—of family linked together on the shore, watching from a distance—and would hear, _Oi, put a sock in it, flyboy—_ j _ust wait a year or two and see how well you handle it, yeah?_

And then Jack didn't know what to think.)

. * * * .

Suddenly, Jack remembered Kristoff.

Or not-so-suddenly, because Jack always remembered Kristoff, but—one day—he looked up and actually, _actually_ realized that he hadn't seen Kristoff in— _years_?

And yet, he recognized him immediately.

He was a lot bigger, of course. Wider and taller and broader, sturdy as a mountain, and covered in just as much snow as one. He'd filled out into his muscles, all stock strength and heavy-lifting, carrying blocks of ice and heaps of snow, and sawing through it all with hunks of metal teeth. Sven was _enormous_ , and they were together and alone, and happy.

Some nights, Kristoff and Sven found a warm place to sleep between jobs by seeking out abandoned cabins and mostly-empty barns in the countryside, but most of the time, the two of them found their way home. (Though Jack wondered, sometimes, if Kristoff usually regretted that.) The Trolls ribbed him every night about making some human friends—he’d grunt—and maybe going into the village more—he’d _growl_ —and _hey, Kristoff, when are you gonna bring a nice girl home? You're not ashamed of us, are ya?_

He’d sigh.

In other news, Kristoff had just made the down payment on a sled. So that was good.

. * * * . 

And, because he was a glutton for punishment, Jack went to see Jamie.

He seemed happy.

. * * * . 

Jack still spent most of his free time at the castle of Arendelle—that much, at least, hadn't changed. He was careful, however, to keep that same measured distance he'd exhibited since that first evening after the Realization, just to err on the side of caution. They laughed and joked and read and talked, but he kept his excitement in check. He was playful, even if he did not play.

Elsa, of course, must have noticed. If she wondered at the cause—and she must have—then she did not ask, and Jack was grateful because he didn't know what he would say to her. The truth? Maybe.

Just not all of it.

But if there was one thing that could lift his spirits—one thing, at least, that couldn't be ignored—then it was the certain but slow unfurling of autumn. The leaves were crisping with red and gold, and the end of August brought on a refreshing chill. It was colder outside, more often and more present, which was always, _always_ invigorating. He couldn't help it, but he _felt_ better when it was colder in Arendelle, and it showed.

  
. * * * . 

Something was wrong with Anna.

Not in health, or even of mind, really—but _something_ , definitely, was different.

And with what little evidence Jack had, he _shouldn't_ have been concerned: the air around her felt brighter; her smiles, warmer; her happiness, fuller. She talked more often with the castle staff, leaving the portraits in the gallery behind. She still sang, and often hummed, but her eyes held a different sort of gleam to them. When she looked out the windows at the fjord and the sea beyond the mountains, Jack still saw the same excitement, the same dreamy, longing in her gaze. But something felt different. _Anna_ was different.

She was stronger.

( _This_ wasn't what was wrong.)

Whimsy became prudence; Dreams fell into pragmatism; her patience, into _determination._ Time and heartache, Hope and disappointment, longing and desire—slowly but surely, all of the things that made Anna, _Anna_ , were being replaced with things that Jack did not always recognize—not in _her._

In her own way, Anna was growing up, as well.

. * * * .

 


	134. - in Barcelona -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/8/14_. INCREDIBLE. This story has finally reached not only 100 bookmarks, but also 1,000+ kudos! Thank you so, so very much! 
> 
> I'm entering a pretty busy race season (5K last Sunday, half-marathon this Saturday, plus two more 5Ks in the next couple of weeks and another upcoming half-marathon, as well) so the updates may slow a tiny bit. I'll be away all weekend, so to compensate, I am posting two chapters today. :) 
> 
> For all of you who continue to comment and recommend this story, chapter after chapter after chapter, I am SO INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL. Thank you for all of the fanart, fanvideos, comments, kudos, and bookmarks, always!!

 

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_\- in Barcelona -_

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**. G U I D A N C E .**

 

“Well, what about this one?” Elsa asked, pointing to a photo in her book. It was an extensive blueprint of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

Which Jack couldn't fully appreciate.

He was _so_ careful not to tense as she moved closer, but it was a long, still moment, all the same. The velvet sleeve brushed against his cotton one, leaning her warmth into his chill, and Jack worked very hard not to lean back into hers.

“Looks tricky,” he commented, glancing out of the corner of his eye. He added a slight nod, disguising his stress as thoughtfulness.

“Structurally, it's already fairly complicated, but the _detail—_ it would be the most intricate project I've ever taken on.”

“Seems that way.” Then, because that wasn't enough, “Looks like it could be fun, though.”

When the pause drudged on, Jack risked a glance to where she was sitting beside him on the rug. The book was still open over her lap, and her bare hands held it aloft like holding a ceremonial gift—save, perhaps, for the subtle way her fingers curled tightly over the tops of the pages. She was staring very intently at the picture, pursing her lips.

Surprised, and a little perplexed, Jack looked back to the page. “You gonna try it?”

When she did not answer him, Jack carefully turned towards her; he could see her face better that way, but it also offered him the perfect opportunity to subtly shift himself away from her warmth.

“Perhaps,” she mused, thinned lips and furrowed brow.

Jack waited a beat, but she seemed unlikely to move. Feeling a little bit at a loss, Jack gave a quick-and-easy shrug, and said, “Okay. You want me to get a fire started up, so it's ready to melt when you're done?”

The book closed shut with a snap. Jack jumped, but before he could settle, Elsa declared, “On second thought, I'm not very much in the mood for architecture today.”

Jack blinked. “Okay.” Things fell awkwardly silent, though. Elsa stared straight at the distant wall in front of her, alarmingly blank and determined all at once. Then, when no further information was forthcoming, Jack cautiously leaned forward and ventured, “You, uh... wanna play chess, or something?"

The look she gave him told him that she did _not_.

“It's getting harder to focus,” she declared, tight and frustrated, with _grit_. It lent an unusual tone to her voice, and for a moment, Jack lost track of her words. “If I'm goingto practice magic, then I want to practice _magic—_ not just build silly little models of tall, magnificent buildings.”

Jack didn't really know what to say to that. (What did she _want_ him to say to that?)

“I think I might take up something else, for a bit,” she announced, sitting straight and tall, fingers wrapped tightly around her abandoned book. “Maybe learn one of your modern languages, or become my own seamstress. I've had the idea, after all, since I first learned that you sewed your own cloak. Your _hood-_ y, or by whichever name you call it. It would be pleasant for all of us, I think, to not have to rely on my mother to take my measurements any longer.”

Jack's current train of thought was, subsequently, derailed.

“Are you all right with that?” she asked him, and he belatedly realized that she was expecting a response. He belatedly realized that he didn't know what she'd been _asking._

Jack jolted, caught off-guard. “What?”

“With me,” Elsa repeated evenly, “Taking a break from magic.”

Jack blinked. _Oh_.  
  
“Well— _no_ ,” he answered honestly,“Not really. But it's your magic, really, so it's your decision what you do with it.”

A beat, and then—Elsa _huffed_ —sharply. Surprised, Jack couldn't help but shift uneasily in his seat. (What? Why was she so upset, all of a sudden?)

“Uh... you all right?”

“You're still upset that I haven't gone with you,” she said suddenly, with the same undertones that had left him so distracted before, only now it was for wildly different reasons. “Outside.”

Whoah, wait, what?

(Well—he _was_ , but seriously, where did this come from?)

Tongue-tied, Jack managed a stilted, “What brought this on?”

Her eyes widened, marginally, as something shifted in her expression. “You are _..._ ” Elsa declared, almost surprised—almost accusingly. “I knew it.”

Jack was very, very lost. And starting to get a little frustrated. “Knew _what?_ ”

“That you still haven't forgiven me for not following you,” Elsa spoke carefully, quiet with an unmistakable heat, “You're upset about my unwillingness to go outside with you, so you’re distancing yourself from my magic.”

“I'm—what _?”_

“And it's not just my magic that you're keeping your distance from, Jack Frost, but that's an entirely different issue that I don't even have the _patience_ to deal with at the moment, so consider yourself fortunate, in that respect.”

Suddenly, Jack's heart was pounding very, very loud. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“What I'm talking about is the fact that—not once _—_ since the Summit—or possibly even before that—have you challenged me, or pushed me in any way to better my craft!”

“Excuse me, but are you saying you _want_ to be challenged?”

“Yes!”

“By who _?”_

“ _You_ —you shortsighted popsicle!”

(What even—?) “How do you even know what a popsicle _is_?”

“Don't you _dare_ try to change the subject on me, Jack Frost.”

“It was _Bunny_ , wasn't it?”

“Jack—I know what you wanted,” she announced, resolutely, and Jack took a brief moment to take stock of the absolute mess his insides had become, all twisted and loud and jarring. (What'd happened? How did things escalate so quickly? What was she _talking_ about?) He was being spun around awfully fast for someone who didn't even know they were getting on the ride.

“What did I want?” he asked, jerkily, then, “What do _you_ want?”

Elsa's anger quieted, but it did not lessen, not a bit. Her eyes were narrowed and unabashed, honest and fierce and—what on earth?— _hurt?_

“You wanted me to leave with you,” she said, very tightly, as all of the pieces slowly began to fall into place, “And realize how wonderful the world is, and to find a way to break free of this castle and my parents and this _role_ , and part of me—a very real part of me thinks that— _sometimes_ —I might want that, too. But I _can't_ , Jack, and you of all people should know why.”

“Okay!” Jack cried suddenly, placatingly—anything to get her to calm down and just _listen_ for a second. His hands were already out in front of him, coaxing her into calmness, but he was probably too far away for it to work. He ignored that. “All right?” he asked, soothingly. “I know. I get it, I do.”

“Yes, well, you might,” Elsa retorted, not giving an inch, “But regardless of whether you do or don't, you are still withholding something that is very important to me.” Her words were just shy of scathing. “To _both_ of us.”

All right, what the fuck.

“Which is _what_?” he gaped.

Elsa gawked at him, incredulously. “Your teachings!” she hissed, astounded.

Jack stilled, stiffening.

“Your knowledge of magic!” she continued on, and with each word came and went a certain softness, crumbling and vulnerable, and was replaced with bitterness and confusion and hurt. Jack stared, unmoving, and Elsa's face pinched as she uttered out, “I don't... For years, I've relied on your advice and your support. Your _lessons_ ,” she said softly, like a sigh, and it scraped along each tick of his spine. He felt very, very cold.

“Jack,” she whispered, almost pleadingly. “You are my _Guardian_.”

Something wrenched, deeply, inside of him.

“So, what—that's all I'm good for?” he nearly snarled, and Elsa blinked back in surprise.

“Of course not,” she murmured, taken aback. “But—”

“A couple of tips and tricks that you can poke into your day?” he plowed on, skin crawling. “Until—that is, I offer you something of real significance, and you reject it completely, because it's what _you_ think is best.”

Her eyes regarded him in a way that made him feel like dirt. “Jack, you knowyou are not being fair.”

“And you think _you_ are?”

“ _Jack,”_ she insisted, with strength. “This is my kingdom _,_ and I will not allow you to guilt me into regretting a decision made in its service! I am _trying_ to balance the things that are most important to me—something at which I know _you_ regularly try your own hand—and right now, one of the most important things to me is learning to hone my magic! If not _you,_ who else can I turn to?” she demanded, and that sinking feeling, in his gut, _it churned and it churned and it_ — “If I don't have your magical guidance, then whose do I have?”

“Who says you need any at all?”

“Jack! This is ridiculous!”

“Yeah, I'll fucking say,” he scoffed.

She stared at him with such contempt _._ “The _nerve,”_ Elsa seethed. Her fists clenched tightly in her empty lap, book discarded, but Jack was too focused on the heat, the anger in her eyes. “What is wrong with you?” she hissed. “What have I done that's _so—_ so _horrible,_ that you've given up?” She looked so angry, and so lost, and so much like the way that Jack felt that chest was sinking inward, crushing and heavy and tight. “Is this truly just about my refusal—or is there more?” she whispered, as if the very thought of it was only just occurring to her, horrifying and sickening. “What are you not telling me?”

Jack's throat clenched, swollen and thick. A moment, stunned and stuttering, before he sighed, “ _Elsa_ —”

“Have you given up?” she demanded, eyes spitting fire. “On my magic? On _me?_ What did I _—?”_

“ _Jesus_ , Elsa—have you ever considered that maybe the reason I can't help you with your magic anymore is because it's stronger than mine?” he spat. “Because I don't know _how?”_

Silence.

Shame enveloped him in a fiery heat, crawling under his skin with an unmistakable itch and a weight that threatened to pull him through the floor. It was anger that lifted him, kept him rooted to the ground. “Doesn't matter whether we're in here or not,” he hissed, staring hard at nothing. Then muttered, darkly, “Still wouldn't change a damn thing.

“And even if I _could_ still help you,” he added, with bite _,_ “D'you really think I'd want to have any more of a hand in exacting your control?” he scoffed, looking up, but only to glare at the window. “You've already got plenty of that.”

_No thanks to me._

“Jack...” said Elsa, softly, but Jack didn't—wouldn't, _couldn't—_ look at her.

He cleared his throat. “That answer your question?” he whispered, feeling hollow.

“I...”

 _Go on_ , he thought, almost daringly. _Say it._

“I'm still your Guardian,” is what he said, instead, interrupting any chance for Elsa to voice her realizations of just how incompetent he'd fallen. “But guiding your magic... it's not... it's not something I'm really capable of, anymore,” he warned her, bracing himself even as he spoke. His sigh dragged most of the weight off of him, but it left him feeling aimless, hollow and transient. “It hasn't been, for a while.”

A few moments passed, and then Elsa shifted on the rug, moving herself more closely to his side. A silent comfort—or, at least, it would have been.

In other circumstances.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Jack huffed a breath of laughter, bitter and sharp, at the whole ridiculousness of it all. ( _Why the hell is_ she _sorry?_ ) Jack twisted his head to the side to look at her, and she up at him, and with as steady a strength as he could muster, he gently placed his arms around her shoulders, and slowly pulled her into him. Just a gentle hold, filled with apologies and impossible calm. And her warmth.

“No,” he whispered, chin atop her crown. He'd almost forgotten how soft her hair was. “You shouldn't be,” he told her, and meant it, right down the very marrow of his bones. “I... couldn't bring myself to tell you. I didn't want to deal with it. And then I let it go on for too long, even when I knew it was only gonna get worse. And then I was a dick about it,” Jack breathed slowly, in careful measures and shuddering beats, and said, “ _I'm_ sorry.”

Elsa was silent for a moment, contemplating.

Then, uniquely chagrined, “I called you a popsicle.”

And Jack, naturally, burst out laughing, which helped.

. * * * .

 

 


	135. - every inch -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/8/14_. Fun fact: I've written another Jelsa one-shot! 
> 
>   
> [apples ;](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2375492) Colonial/Fairytale AU, One-Shot: Human!Jack/Elsa. Rated T. **{ 9,168 words. }**  
>  _Nice try, country boy, but you never had a chance. ___
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

. * * * .

_\- every inch -_

. * * * .

 

It wasn't until a few moments later, however,  
that they realized:

Elsa was not surrounded by a flurry of snowflakes.

There were no ice crystals,  
clinging to her bare fingertips.

.

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The temperature  
had not

 

_dropped._

 

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.

 

(If  
anything,

 _Jack felt it_ —)

.

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. * * * .

**. B O U N D A R I E S .**

 

 

It didn't take long for the awkwardness to creep in.

The hyperawareness.

Carefully, Jack extracted himself from Elsa's side, replacing the tightness in his chest with a slip of a smile—something that would look both apologetic and sheepish, if he pulled it off right. His whole side felt the loss of warmth keenly, but it didn't show.

The cold had never bothered him, before.

“What else has Bunny been bringing you?” Jack prodded, arching a curious brow. Deviousness was usually his best distraction tactic, but today, this went far deeper than mischief; he wanted to know.

“Actually,” Elsa laughed, a little breathlessly—just enough to let Jack see how affected she still was by their argument. Jack frowned, but listened carefully. “Bunny still brings me his special sugar cubes, but this time, the popsicle treat was from North.”

Jack scowled. _Of course_.

“It was a week or so ago, and it caught me by surprise,” she fondly explained. “I haven't been seeing him as frequently anymore, and I think he feels rather guilty for it.” Elsa paused, as if waiting for his opinion on the matter **,** but Jack kept resolutely silent. Catching onto his reticence, even if she didn't fully understand all the reasons why—( _and to be honest, did Jack even understand his own weird territorial instincts, himself?_ )—Elsa readjusted the long folds of her skirts and said, “He was in a terrible hurry, but he left a care package with all sorts of sweets. Chocolate and books and things. The popsicle was something that the elves had made at the North Pole earlier that afternoon, and he brought me one to try. It was actually quite delicious, so I made myself another, out of curiosity, later that evening... I would have shared, but that was one of the nights you were collecting teeth with Toothiana, and—I suppose I just hadn't remembered it, until now.”

Jack had a twitchy feeling along his spine, like an itchhe couldn't reach, or put a finger on.

Was she apologizing for something?

“Another journal?”

Elsa blinked. “What?”

Jack halted, regretting that he'd even mentioned it. Too late to turn back now, though. “Another journal, too?” Jack asked, as casually as possible. “In your box of gifts, or whatever.”

“Oh,” said Elsa, looking confused. “No. Just sweets.”

Jack nodded. He felt terribly embarrassed, but wasn't sure why.

“Look, Elsa... I feel like... I should explain something,” Jack haltingly began. It was a lot easier to say this while he was looking at his lap, and how uselessly his hands rested there. His body was facing her now, though, so the burn of her gaze fell to his downturned cheeks, which thankfully felt as pale as they should. He licked his lips, holding tight to his train of thought before it could slip away. “I... _we..._ the other Guardians and I always had a... _feeling_ that you'd exceed our... own abilities, eventually,” he nodded on, very pointedly ignoring the way her eyes bored into his face. “I just... didn't expect it to happen so soon.”

“Jack,” Elsa said gently, and it sounded like she was trying not to laugh—soft and wistful. “It's... _been_ eleven years.”

His stomach tumbled.

( _Has it?_ )

Jack smiled, ruefully; he glanced up, smirking at her with a slipof self-deprecation, “Still.”

Elsa's smile was just as warped, but slowly faded into consideration. Jack waited, knowing that her gaze had grown clouded.

“Do you think it _would_ be better,” Elsa nearly whispered, “to practice my magic elsewhere?”

Jack laughed a sigh, running a hand down his tired face. “I don't think it's gonna make much of a difference, to be honest,” he answered, a bit wryly. “I... haven't really said anything about it since, because—I don't know. You had a point, that night, when I asked you to come with me, and you said it wouldn't feel right. To leave Anna, even for a little while. Made me think,” Jack grumbled, tilting his head to side in reluctant admission. “Not about leaving the castle, per se—because you can do that anytime you please, whether you realize it or not, _but more like_ —I realized: whether you're in here or out there, you're still not gonna be able to do the kind of magic you _really_ want. Not until... well,” Jack sighed, long and tired and heavy. “Not until you get to a place where you don't have to hide anymore.”

“ _Or_ ,” Elsa added smoothly, in a strange tone. “Somewhere I can be certain I'm simply not in a position to be caught.”

Jack's mouth thinned into a grim, curious line.

That wasn't exactly what he'd been saying.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, trying to reign in his irritation. (Was she actually pretending to change her mind about this— _now_? Getting him started up, to give him something to talk about? Trying to keep his mind off the stuff that was really bothering him—say, for example, the total inadequacy of any of the Guardians in training her—save, perhaps, for _maybe Manny_? Was she just humoring him? If so, he couldn't exactly bring himself appreciate it.)  
  
Whatever. He could play along, he guessed.  
  
“So, what—you're gonna find a nice, icy corner of the universe and increase your magical capabilities tenfold—without being discovered?” He scoffed. “You'd have to come with me to Antarctica or Siberia or the glaciers beyond Berk or something, and even North isn't _that_ willing to bend the rules.”

“I wouldn't leave Arendelle.”

Jack gritted his teeth. “I _know_.”

Elsa was silent, considering. Jack was still stewing, though he wasn't quite sure what for, when Elsa's soft voice broke through the silence, bursting through the cloud in his head, and all he'd managed to catch was, “—when I was a child. The maps weren't very good of course, but the drawings certainly proved a point. I've never seen them firsthand, before.”

“Seen what?”

Elsa frowned. “The mountain ranges,” she repeated slowly, looking like she didn't know why she even bothered. Jack sent her a _look_ , which she swiftly returned.

“Cut me some slack,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. There were knots, _everywhere_. “It's been a _day_ , all right? A very certain kind of day.”

With a thinning frown, Elsa appeared as if she wanted greatly to comment, but in the end, decided as Elsa often did: on mercy. She gave him a moment to settle himself again, then asked, clear and curious, “What are they like?”

Jack wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. _They're beautiful—powerful_.

 _Dangerous_.

“What're you thinking?” he asked her suddenly, as the fuzzy part of his brain stuttered and clicked, clearing away the fog. Dry humor, because it was easiest: “You up for a _hike,_ all of a sudden?”

Elsa dipped a brow, teasing and prodding all at once. “I was under the impression that foot-travel would not be necessary.”

 _It wouldn't_.

There was a sudden tightness in Jack Frost's chest. Eyes narrowing slightly—cautiously, “What are you saying, exactly?”

She chose her word carefully. Or maybe she didn't, because what she said next was, “I am curious.”

“Right,” Jack breathed, skeptical. Elsa's idea of _curious_ was starting to sound a lot like Jack's idea of _impulsive and reckless and Jack,_ no _, that will probably get you in trouble_. “So, what—you're thinking of swishing around a few snow drifts in a cave somewhere? Build some—” ( _Snowmen_ , but he didn't say it.) “— _some_ , igloos or something, on the North Mountain?”

“The North Mountain?”

Suddenly, Jack was struck by the feeling that he'd somehow revealed a little more than he would have liked.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, shuffling awkwardly under her curious stare. “Yeah.” He shifted—suddenly, “I don't know.”

“Aren't the ice miners there?”

“Only during the summer,” Jack answered, feeling distinctly uneasy, but couldn't fathom why. He was still acting a bit like an uncooperative— _uncertain, uncomfortable_ —brat, but Elsa seemed intent on ignoring it. “It's... a dangerous trek, so they only make a few trips. The rest of the year, they don't bother, because there's enough ice from the other mountain peaks, which are easier to travel.”

“What makes it so dangerous?”

Jack paused, regarding her carefully. He didn't have it in him to imagine that she was _actually_ considering this as an option, but—as inquisitive as Elsa was—her questions seemed awfully invested to be considered purely as part of someone's natural curiosity.

“Well... it's the highest peak in the region,” Jack explained slowly, watching her face, which was almost blank with the depth of her engagement. (Didn't she already know all of this? She'd had to have read this before—somewhere. Right? Wasn't that what she was saying?) “It's craggy, but so covered in ice that there are hardly any footholds, so only experienced climbers ever venture up there—and usually at a considerable risk.” (Not that they would have to worry about that; they _would_ be flying.

But Jack cut that Hope short, before it could run away with him.)

“And the miners who do—they stay on the mountain, then?” Elsa asked. “For a while?”

Jack found himself shrugging. Suspiciously, his shoulders were feeling a lot lighter than they did five minutes ago. “They might, maybe, for a day or two,” Jack conceded. “It's considered uninhabitable. The winds are pretty harsh, and the air is thin, so it's not usually safe for humans. And the storms make it difficult to find real shelter.”

His words trailed off as Elsa nodded, slow and thoughtful. “I see.”

Jack found himself hesitating once more. “Elsa,” he said, carefully, watching each fluid second of movement as she tilted her face up to look at him. It was another moment before he could get his words out. “You're not... you're not considering this. Are you?”

Elsa didn't say anything, at first.

“Because—you don't _have_ to listen to me, you know?” Jack said suddenly, stomach jumbled. “I offered because I thought it would help, but...” ( _I want you to come with me because you want to._

 _Not because_ I _want you to._ )

Elsa looked back at him carefully, expression unreadable.

“Is that where you go?” she finally asked him.

Jack started, feeling rather like _he'd_ been caught red-handed. “Sometimes,” he mumbled.

He had no idea what she was or wasn't going to say, honestly, so he shouldn't have been that surprised when a rare, strange smile curled upon her lips. “Do you remember what I once told you, Jack,” she whispered, “about the way my skin loves the open air?”

Well.

 _Now_ he did.

(— _shit._ )

“It was so much harder, in those days,” Elsa said softly, with the small smile of painful Memory, and Jack forced himself to focus on her words. “When I _always_ wore the gloves,” she whispered, staring down at her hands. Gently, her fingers curled. “And my jacket,” she added, evenly, “and whatever else I could find to trap myself in.”

Jack's throat clogged with feeling. “ _Elsa_ —”

“I didn't know any better,” she cut him off, apologizing to _Jack_ just as much as she was apologizing to herself. Her voice was soft, and earnest. “ _We_ didn't know any better... How much worse it was to keep myself bundled up, to keep my powers _bottled_ up inside me. I was suffocating myself,” she whispered. “And I didn't even realize it.”

Jack's hand reached out, then _stilled—_ retracted, slowly.

“Everything was always threatening to rise up, to burst out—regardless of whether I wished it or not, and I was too scared to give it the chance. It made things worse—the feeling—like one day, it would _burst_ and spill over. Like champagne.”

“Like _what_?”

For a full two moments, Jack was actually sure that he'd misheard her, and had probably rudely interrupted some really important insight. Then slowly, Elsa smiled.

“No,” she mused, smirking at her own private joke.“I don't suppose you would remember.”

This probably wasn't the weirdest train of thought Elsa had ever traveled down, but it was definitely Top Three. Incidentally, it was also really annoying to suddenly no know so little of what she was talking about—especially if it somehow included him. He tried not to be grouchy. “Remember what?”

Elsa was undoubtedly amused. “You, yourself, proposed many outlandish things in those days,” she reminded him, without really explaining much of anything at all. Then, “And you have so much more to remember than I.”

Jack blinked, narrow-eyed and astounded, and a little perturbed.

“ _Champagne?_ ” he echoed, dubious and petulant, which was not a good combination for him, but _really?_ Champagne.

  
( _Sherry_ , Jack's mind supplied—

—and he buried it down, panicked.)

Elsa peeked a smile up at him, clearly enjoying his confusion. For a long moment, she merely drank it in... and then she opened her mouth, naturally, to tease him.

Only, she didn't.

“The point is, Jack, that recently I've come to realize... that my magic _is_ trapped inside of me. For its own protection—and for mine. And I know that. I let it out a little each day, little by little by little, but I will not stay this way forever. I will not allow it,” she vowed, quiet and sincere, every inch of her a Queen. Jack stared, frozen, still.

“But this is not the right time,” she continued calmly, smoothing her skirts. Jack found himself blinking, woken from a trance. “One day, I _will_ visit the North Mountain, to see it for myself—perhaps to _see_ what I am truly capable of. But now is not the time,” she echoed, resignation and determination and steady patience, “because I've realized now that—that once I begin, I shall not _stop._ ” More quietly, “Nor should I think I might ever want to.”

Her words rolled over him, heavy stones and prickling cold and a fluttering in his stomach. The quickening of his heart. “You're not going to hide your powers from the kingdom,” he whispered, eyes fixed heavily upon her face. “Once you're Queen.”

“The Troll King said I must learn to _control_ my powers, Jack,” said Elsa, staring at him levelly. (But this _wasn't_ —he wasn't lookin' to give her a _challenge_.) She was still looking at him, waiting for his voice, when she whispered, “Not contain them.”

No. She was right.

She was absolutely right.

Jack's head felt light.

“How do you figure on doing all that?” he asked, because he couldn't help himself— _curious and hopeful, almost to the point of greed_. Elsa smiled, as if recalling something from a fond Memory, invisible and unreachable to Jack.

Or so he thought.

Her look was very knowing, and very meaningful, and almost teasing as she echoed a familiar phrase, from so many years before— _a piece of advice and maybe-wisdom and gentle encouragement from a certain frosted someone, who was uncertain, always, but determined and devoted, endlessly_ —until Jack found that he was maybe sort of smiling, too.

“Baby steps,” she answered, like a joke.

And for once, it wasn't on them.

. * * * .

 **(** [x](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1139506/chapters/2377210) **)**

. * * * .

 


	136. - fairies to -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/13/14_. For the next few chapters, an especially huge thanks goes to betas [Alison](http://ahlistenalison.tumblr.com) and [Abby](http://dragonsinparis.tumblr.com), who really pushed me to clarify and consolidate my writing, which was startin' to get a little sloppy. (Alison actually created a TABLE ON GOOGLE DOCS to help me put things in perspective, and they both totally called me out on some minor cheats I _may or may not have tried to take_ , so super kudos to them. ♥ ♥)
> 
> Looks like there will be four updates tonight! :) Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> (And guess what. It's time for another round of 1sentence drabbles! I debated over whether or not to switch it up and do three sentence drabbles, or two sentence drabbles, but I really do love the 1sentence punch. I tried to hold off for as long as I could!)

 

 

. * * * .  
 _  
_ _\- fairies to -_  
                      (woo)

. * * * .

 

 **#01 – Walking  
** Step-by-step-by step, Jack moved forward; there were cities to frost, towns to trick, battle plans to be enacted, research to be done, fairies to woo, and mischief to be had; as always, time passed steadily on.

 **  
#02 – Waltz  
** “ _Ah,_ sorry,” Jack laughed easily, twisting away through the air, like a graceful game of tag, and, “Maybe next time?”

 **  
#03 – Wishes  
** For so long, all Jack had ever wanted was for someone to _see_ him— _a word, a smile, a moment, a hug or a touch or a laugh or a sigh_ —and he would have given anything— _almost anything—_ to be felt beneath someone's fingertips, to be solid instead of lost, to be grounded instead of floating, to be happy instead of hollow; _funny_ , Jack thought, as he casually shifted away from Elsa’s warmth, _how things work out_. **  
** **  
  
#04 – Wonder  
** “It's September—YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS, YES?— _YES?_ —COME, PREPARE—IT IS NOW THE OFFICIAL START TO THE HOLIDAY SEASON!”

 **  
#05 – Worry  
** When he asked, Tooth only repeated, “I'm _fine,_ ” and went back to listening to North.

 **  
#06 – Whimsy  
** Well, it appeared that Anna's more youthful tendencies had not _completely_ disappeared just yet: Anna and her mother wrote letters back and forth to one another, simply for the fun of it; they read them together, often to each other, during their daily take of morning and afternoon tea, over muffled giggles about silly correspondences; meanwhile, the only letters Elsa received were the ones addressed in fancy script, sealed in expensive wax, and delivered expressly from the maritime post.

 **  
#07 – Waste/Wasteland  
** When one’s Guardian tasks got tedious or overwhelming or the important details ran the risk of getting lost in the cracks, North said a Guardian had to _center_ themselves; North had the Workshop and Bunny had the Warren and Antarctica wasn’t exactly what Jack would have called home, but it was a good enough place to get his shit together, and organize, and _hell_ if Jack didn’t know in his heart that two hundred years ago he would have laughed in the face of anyone who looked him in the eye and said the word _organize_.  
 **  
  
#08 – Whiskey & Rum  
**“I don't know where this sudden _interest_ in the distillery is coming from, Jack, but as much as I'd like to blame North and Bunnymund, I simply don't know if I can; all I can tell you, right now, is that if you _insist_ on keeping up with them on these ridiculous night-gatherings of yours, you are going to yellow your teeth, and I shall _not—_ I repeated, shall _not—_ lift a finger to— _oh_ , for the love of— _girls, stop your chittering and return to your stations, immediately!”_

 **  
#09 – War  
** Elsa moved closer, Jack shifted back; warm fingers nudged his— _a full four seconds, he counted the moments as he let them pass_ —and then his hand slipped away, disappeared into the pocket of his hoody; it wasn't ever easy, and it was often pretty painful, but—it got easier, with practice.  
  


 **#10 – Weddings  
** “Mama, do you think Princess Rapunzel would like a practical gift, or a sentimental one— _oh,_ oh, or _both?”_

. * * * .

 


	137. - she's my -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/13/14_.

 

. * * * .

  
_\- she’s my -_

_(sister)  
_

. * * * .  
  


.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

. * * * .

**. U N C E R T A I N T Y .**

 

“A letter, your majesty,” said Olga, who hardly ever tried to hide her two cents these days. As she set down the silver tray with the single letter upon the Princess' desk, Elsa's smile grew, infinitely wider and _yet_ —only barely noticeable.

Unless you were Jack.

“Thank you, Olga,” offered Elsa with a gracious smile, and by now Olga knew well enough to scurry out so that Elsa could open her letter in peace—but not before offering a knowing, encouraging wink. Jack sat brooding atop the far corner of her desk, wanting to punch a wall.

“It's been a while,” was all he said, stiff and flat. (For all the effort he was _not_ putting into maintaining at least the illusion of professionalism, he felt sorta like Olga. He probably probably wasn't any better at hiding his opinion.)

Elsa merely grinned wryly from under her brow and tore open the envelope with her bare fingers, not bothering to reach for her stationary knife. ( _So impatient_ , Jack noted with surprise. _Eager._ ) It was an insignificant detail to everyday act, and Jack wasn't going to let himself read too much into it. And yet, he still felt dark clouds gathering over him, until the press of his blunt nails bit into his palms inside his sweatshirt pocket and he thought, _stupid._

He wondered if she'd noticed.

“This is his third letter this past fortnight,” Elsa revealed as she gently unfolded the letter, all aglow. She glanced to him, uncertain and hopeful. “That must mean something... shouldn't it?”

And Jack Frost's skin _crawled_ , when he lifted his shoulders and he shrugged, “I wouldn't know.”

. * * * .

Canada was sometimes where he went to think, and today the forest did not disappoint; rich with brilliant color, the dying leaves left him feeling very much alert.

Things were starting to make sense.

Elsa was seventeen and, by her society's standards, she was already a year beyond the appropriate age of marriage. Elsa had been, and always would be, a little ahead of her time, and that fact had never much surprised him when it came to her studies or her politics. ( _Or her acceptance of an uppity ghost-kid who shot ice out of a stick_.) Elsa was of a brilliant mind; a student who pushed herself to learn about all that she did not yet understand; a girl who lived through her heart, but approached with her mind. The least he could do, in her honor, was try to repay the favor.

 _Right_ , Jack thought, staring above at the bright canopy of fire among the trees. _Rational_.

He could be rational.

So, he wondered: what might it be like for the Heiress of a small and prosperous country— _who'd had but mere glimpses of a normal life, who happened to possess a magic that not even her Guardians could measure_ —to have the coveted favor of a handsome Prince from a well-respected, well-established, well-allied country?

(Who probably wouldn't ever truly understand her?)

Jack frowned, staring at the sky. He'd never quite agreed with Elsa's perspective on marriage— _an_ _alliance_ , she'd argue, _a union_ —even if he could understand where she was coming from... all eleven frustrating years of it. He hadn't ever liked her viewpoint on marriage before, but it'd always seemed so far away; he hadn't realized, until recently, just how much it still bothered him.

To willingly use herself as a political _tool_ , knowingly and strategically, like she were a valuable chess piece on a board she loved to play? _She_ may have been okay with that, but _Jack_ —Jack wasn't so sure.

Unless, of course.

Unless, of course, Elsa— _did_ have feelings involved?

That would make things different, wouldn't it? (A little closer to _right?_ )

Jack hardly constituted that as a perfect solution, however. (So _what_ if Elsa liked Henrik's words and his fancy script and his long letters? Words were words, but actions _meant_ something; how was Elsa supposed to really even know this guy? She'd only met him just the once.)

He wondered.

Jack watched the clouds roll past, beyond the canopy of fire, and tried to see things the way Elsa might. There was an awful lot of devotion put into writing those letters, he supposed, which counted for something. He guessed. And—he knew, from unfortunate, firsthand experience—that they _had_ made quite the first impression on one another, which had gradually strengthened into a deep regard. ( _But would it last_ , Jack wondered, _after the first icy breath of—_

He closed off that thought, quickly.)

Henrik _respected_ her, he supposed, and respected her opinion, which was doubly important. (Elsa had a lot of them.) And Jack never knew exactly what went on in their correspondence, but it sounded like Henrik liked discussing political matters with Elsa just as much as personal ones, like he was already treating her as Queen. Or a soon-to-be one, anyway. So. Points for that.

And he always invited her to visit, regardless of how many regretful declinations the royal family of Arendelle sent their way, so—additional points for persistence. (But was that because he wanted _Elsa_? Or because he needed a Queen?) He seemed genuine enough, but Jack had been around long enough to know a thing or two about selfishness.

Jack scowled at the sky, deeply.

He had the strangest feeling it was scowling back.

Okay. So even if Henrik _was_ an actually decent guy with actually decent intentions, who deeply cared for Elsa and her future role in his kingdom, who respected her as an individual and as a companion, who _would_ cherish her like she ought to be cherished—was Sideburns really a guy who could handle some magic? ( _So close to home?_ )

 _Elsa's perspective_ , he hissed, narrowing his eyes at the sky _._ This was an exercise in _her_ point of view— _not his_. Or his bias or his paranoia, anyway. Right, then. So.

The issue he'd been pointedly ignoring:

Jack guessed... Henrik _could_ be considered an attractive suitor, even with all the ridiculous facial hair. (It may have been _fashionable_ in this world, sure, but personally, the only time Jack thought it was even sorta acceptable in this day and age was when it was in a comic book on a guy with claws.) But then again, Elsa _had_ mentioned, once or twice—not that he was counting—her opinion of his handsomeness. More or less. And it wasn't like he didn't _know_ who she'd been Dreaming about, either, so really, it wasn't that much of a stretch for his imagination to reasonably conclude that Elsa was, conceivably, attracted to the guy.

 _Egh_.

Just thinking about it made him sick to his stomach, but it couldn't be helped. (He didn't trust Henrik. Henrik didn't _know_ Elsa like he did.

Of course he'd be angry about it.)

 _Rational_ , he reminded himself.

He could be rational.

. * * * .

Still prohibited from attending official meetings of counsel, Elsa instead made her next proposition over morning tea.

( _“She's my_ sister _.”_ )

The King and Queen denied her request, of course. She was rather silent on this rejection, which Jack found disconcerting.

(But as Jack later realized—  
Elsa had probably planned for that, too.)

(“ _You are_ both _our daughters_.”)

However, her parents' refusal to provide their blessing for a sisterly reunion hardly lessened the fearsomeness with which Elsa laid her plans; from the humble workings of her personal desk in her private bedroom—

She _wrote._

Her eloquence and diplomacy had always been a mere few of her greatest assets, and seeing them put to such good use was fascinating to watch. ( _Just think of how much more incredible they could be, when she's finally allowed to—_ ) She established connections all across the kingdom through mere parchment and ink—sometimes with the explicit permission of her parents, sometimes not—and soon the piles of paperwork stacked high upon her desk, pushing her books and novels to the side. (Jack may or may not have attempted to coerce her into throwing the letters into the air like leaves; lamentably, she did not accept.)

Emboldened by a force that Jack was only just beginning to anticipate, Elsa's determination flourished; she organized trades and sparked connections amongst her people, especially amongst those in need. Through a rather clever arrangement, Elsa managed to procure enough lumber for the ice miners to build a small shelter upon the trail of one of their most dangerous passages, and in exchange, Elsa artfully swayed her parents' decision in approving the permitfor the earnest Oaken fellow to construct the kingdom's first-ever _commercially_ -based sauna. Elsa wrote to schoolhouses and distant libraries, inquiring as to their welfare and offering what support she could. She wrote to Henrik often, though Jack didn't actually know all that much about, but sometimes Sideburns sent Elsa maps and copied documents, scribbled dates of history and margins filled with too many footnotes. She even wrote letters in keen interest of exploring the state of the orphanages in the North—especially with how they fared in comparison to the great strides made by their neighbors of the South. (Jack rather wished she'd at least shared that last one with him _beforehand,_ however; it was quite a shock, needless to say, to glance down one day at the signature of a newly-arrived letter and read the name _Eugene Fitzherbert_.)

But there were other changes being made at home, too.

Such as the morning that Pavel delivered a small bouquet of roses to Anna's door (the ones from Elsa's corner of the garden, straight from her favorite hedges) or the evening that Olga delightfully passed on the _the most delectable little sugar cubes_ with Anna's after-supper tea.

“How is Anna doing?” Elsa asked him not long after, just before the turn of September's New Moon. “Is she excited for the winter? Is she doing well with her studies?”

_Does she miss me?_

Jack thought about his words carefully. Anna seemed to be doing better than ever, in some ways.

He just wished that they weren't the ways in which Elsa would be hurt the most.

Anna was entering a phase where she was determined to stand on her own, and Jack knew—it was _good_ for Anna. She deserved to feel strong, and capable, and wanted.

( _Missed._ )

“Really well,” he answered, with a shrug of a smile, and told himself that it was the truth.

. * * * .  
  


A week later and he was once again up a damn tree, redirecting his mind back to Elsa's perspective, again and again. It was daytime in Arendelle, but nighttime in the west, and he'd found himself a nice patch of a forest by some small, forgotten village. He was a glutton for punishment, apparently, because he'd let himself think about something he should really know better not to touch. (Curiosity _killed the frosty cat,_ and all that.)

Because Jack was letting himself imagine what Elsa's Dreams were like.

 _Like_ —did they take place in Arendelle? Or did she finally travel to the Southern Isles, of her own volition? It was difficult to say. Or did she travel to Corona? But then Jack got to wondering if she stayed in this world at all, or if she made her way to Beijing, or Chicago, or Dubai. Saw all of the beautiful places she'd only read about in her borrowed books. ( _Would Jack be with her?_

 _Would Anna?_ )

He didn't bother to consider her parents.

One thing led to another, and Jack's mind wrapped itself back around once more to the possibility of Henrik.

And after that, it wasn't easy to stop.

For someone who so carefully crafted themselves into an _ally,_ who knew so well the meaning of _companionship—_ would Elsa actually care for romance? (Would she appreciate it, if someone knew well enough to _try?)_ Was it something she craved, even if she did not allow herself to realize it—or acknowledge it?

Jack's addled mind returned once more to his own lurid fantasy, in which Elsa attended the Summit without him— _how her life might have been, instead_. He'd originally imagined the scene as Elsa on the balcony, alone, staring off into the distance of a past she was leaving behind. ( _But would she have been alone, truly?_ ) Would Henrik have come out to join her? Stood beside her? Would she have felt his presence in that moment, at all, and... confessed her attachment? ( _Her feelings?_ )

It was a confusing thought.

(And what if _she_ had been confused?) What if the night had somehow ended differently from how she'd imagined it to be? What if it _hadn't_ ended perfectly, as he'd imagined, but instead left her missing Arendelle and longing for home? Resigned to her royal fate as an eligible pawn in her father's kingdom, yet grateful for the promise of soon returning to the comfort of familiar _—at least for a little while_ —and all the while thinking of the way things used to be, all the ways in which she was going to have to say goodbye.

Would she be thinking of him?

As Henrik leaned down to kiss her— _to seal his commitment, his devotion her happiness_ —would she be thinking of the way she would miss him? Of all the things he had done for her? That they'd accomplished _—together?_

The thought left his stomach reeling, and Jack needed to sit up, to steady himself against the trunk of the tree. His gut ached beneath his hand, but once the thought had settled, he couldn't seem to get it _out._

( _That's your arrogance talkin', '_ said a voice, laced with disappointment, bitter and unsurprised. _Expectin' a girl to be thinkin' about you, when somebody else's kissing her_.)

And just like that, Jack froze.

That wasn't the _point_. (That wasn't the point. Elsa, thinking of _him_ —that wasn't what Jack wanted—not at all. Not at _all._ ) The _point_ was that if he somehow managed to enter her mind at all, in a moment like that— _in this ridiculous, imaginary world that he'd created_ —then she was probably saying _goodbye_. That she would know, in that moment, when Henrik kissed her— _or she kissed him_ —that something had irrevocably changed, and that—by letting someone else so clearly into her heart—

She was letting go of Jack.

 _Or, at least_ , Jack thought, with a sinking feeling in his chest, a part of him _._

So... maybe, after all, it wasn't that farfetched to imagine that she might think of him—simply to appreciate all that they'd been through together, for her to finally make it to that point of so-called freedom _._ To think of his tricks and his laughter, his teasing and his games and his magic, or the way that she could always know that he was watching over her, always there for her, no matter what she needed, or how, or when. That he'd do anything for her, anything she asked— _especially_ if it meant that he got to stay with her forever, always, impossibly, like they used to be. ( _Maybe,_ whispered a voice, as venomous as it was invigorating _,_ _she wouldn't be all that willing to give you up, either_.) Maybe— _maybe_ , she'd realize, in that moment, in the grip of his kiss, how little Henrik's actions compared to his beautiful words—that for all his handsome looks and handsome deeds, he wasn't _quite_ the Prince she'd hoped he'd be, that he was a good catch, _but not a prize_ , and that for all his impassioned letters, his passion just didn't quite translate into touch.

If Henrik's kisses couldn't communicatethe wealth of feeling she thought she felt through his words—if it wasn't _enough_?—and Elsa indeed felt the bindings of another prison slipping over her— _in whatever form that might take_ —would she still accept his hand in marriage? For the sake of her kingdom or her people or whatever excuse she fed herself—would she do it?

For once—

He didn't know what she would do.

The whole thing was ten kinds of majorly fucked up, and Jack was pissed off about it on ten different levels, and it was as he was letting himself be carried away by frustration and rage that he imagined himself on the balcony instead.

He still didn't realize what he was doing, even as he pictured it. He was just there to say goodbye. Elsa was alone on a balcony, separated from her people even while amongst them, and he'd come to see her even when she'd told him not to—and was glad he had. The worst part was that she wasn't even surprised to see him— _just offered a sad smile, jaded and disappointed, older and wiser than when he'd seen her off at the docks_. His chest was clenching and his throat was thick, and as his hand covered hers on the railing, her gratitude hit him like a wave, a force strong enough to nearly send him stumbling backwards. He'd only meant to bring her comfort, to lean his head forward and whisper reassurances on the night breeze— _no one could see him, so maybe they couldn't see her, either_ —and she was looking at him the way she always did, with fondness and warmth and soul-certain recognition— _the other humans weren't even there, they were alone, a million miles away_ —and then he was kissing her, and _she_ —Elsa, was kissing him back.

Jack spent the rest of the day in the forest, talking to no one.

When he'd convinced himself that it didn't mean anything, he left.

. * * * .


	138. - lackluster and -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/13/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- lackluster and -_  
 _(anticlimactic)_

. * * * .  


 **#11 – Birthday  
** The entire kingdom was thrumming with plans for Anna’s ball— _invitations and catering, decorations and salad plate orders —_and gossip, louder than ever; because the years following Elsa's introduction were what some would call _lackluster_ and _anticlimactic_ , the kingdom’s excitement for this ball increased twofold (the last ball had potential; this ball had _promise_ ).

 **  
#12 – Blessing  
** Another New Moon passed with little to no reason for concern and, thoroughly exhausted, the Guardians celebrated another evening well done; he tried to see the quiet as a blessing, the way the others did, instead of one step closer to forcing _him_ out of the dark.

 **  
#13 – Bias  
** “ _Unbelievable —_I asked the Baby Teeth, _politely_ , to bring me the dental records from Rapunzel’s file almost twenty minutes ago, while _he_ shows up, asks for a cuppa juice, and within seconds he’s got ‘imself enough cups of blasted juice to fill himself _a goddamn swimming pool!”_  
 **  
  
#14 – Burning  
** September turned to October; the air grew colder, the leaves burned brighter, and each night the hearths of homes filled with light and warmth, and fire.  


 **#15 – Breathing**  
At sunset, Jack usually took his leave; he only stayed the night if it was the New Moon, and was gone well before the early morning, when Elsa finally drifted off to sleep; there was no reason to watch over her while she slept, anymore.

 **  
#16 – Breaking**  
“ _WHAT IS THIS —_EKH!—SOMEONE HAS DISENGAGED LOCKING SYSTEM FROM MY SLEIGH— _WHO —_HAS TAKEN MY _KRUZHKA!?”_

 **  
#17 – Belief**  
(And even amidst all the insanity, and the long nights, and the racing around and the mischief and the ordinary, it was still almost too good to be true, each time she smiled and laughed and scolded, “ _Jack_.”)

 **  
#18 – Balloon**  
 _Swear to god,_ if Jack didn’t stop the elves from eating too many cookies, then _no one_ did; seriously, how the hell had they managed to survive so long without him?

~~**  
#19 – Balcony** ~~

**  
#20 – Bane**  
“ _WHAT THE —_North, for the LAST TIME, _I did not fucking take_ _your hot cocoa travel mug!!_ ”

. * * * .


	139. - crumb cake -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/13/14_. Honest to frost, one of my favorite chapters ever.

 

. * * * .  
 _  
\- crumb cake -_

. * * * .

~~Yᴏᴜ ᴏᴠᴇʀsᴛᴜғғᴇᴅ ᴄʀᴜᴍʙ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ~~   
~~Dᴇᴀʀ Sᴛ. Sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ~~

Dᴇᴀʀ Sᴀɴᴛᴀ,

Sɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ɪᴛ ᴘᴇʀғᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴs ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴀʟʟ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ ɴᴏɴ﹣Gᴜᴀʀᴅɪᴀɴ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀs ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs ғᴇsᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴇᴀʀ ɪs ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇsᴘᴏɴᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ sᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ sᴇᴀʟᴇᴅ ᴇɴᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ғɪʀsᴛ sᴀʏ﹕

Yᴏᴜ ᴀssʜᴏʟᴇ.

Sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅʟʏ, I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ I ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍɪsᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴄᴏᴀ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ᴍᴜɢ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ sʟᴇɪɢʜ, ᴀs sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴀɢᴜᴇs ﹙ᴡʜᴏ sʜᴀʟʟ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛғᴜʟʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇᴅ﹚ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇғᴜʟʟʏ sᴜɢɢᴇsᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʟᴘʀɪᴛ. Iɴ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇғᴇɴsᴇ, I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴘʀᴏᴏғ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇᴀʙᴏᴜᴛs ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴡɪʟʟ sᴘᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀᴄᴄᴜsᴀᴛɪᴏɴs.  
  
ᴘʀᴏᴏғ:

ǀ, Ƥяιηcєѕѕ ƐƖѕα σf AяєηɗєƖƖє, нєяєву ɗєcƖαяє муѕєƖf αѕ тнє ρяιмαяу ωιтηєѕѕ тσ тнє ωнєяєαвσυтѕ σf тнє αƖƖєgєɗ Ɠυαяɗιαη Jαcк Ƒяσѕт ση тнє єνєηιηg σf Sєρтємвєя тωєƖfтн, αѕ ιт ωαѕ ǀ ωιтн ωнσм нє ѕρєηт тнє єηтιяєту σf тнє єνєηιηg. ~~AƖѕσ, яєαƖƖу, Jαcк мαу вє мιѕcнιєνσυѕ, вυт ɗσ уσυ нσηєѕтƖу тнιηк нє'ɗ вє cƖєνєя єησυgн тσ ɗιѕєηgαgє тнє ιηтяιcαтє Ɩσcкιηg ѕуѕтєм fяσм тнє~~

Aʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. I·ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀʟɪʙɪ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ.

Sᴏ sᴜᴄᴋ ɪᴛ.

 

Cᴏʀᴅɪᴀʟʟʏ,

Jᴀᴄᴋ Fʀᴏsᴛ, Esϙᴜɪʀᴇ  
Hєя RσуαƖ Hιgнηєѕѕ, Ƥяιηcєѕѕ ƐƖѕα σf AяєηɗєƖƖє  
  


* * *

~~Jαcк, уσυ ɗσ кησω уσυ'яє ησт ƖєgαƖƖу qυαƖιfιєɗ тσ υѕє тнє тιтƖє Ɛѕqυιяє~~

P.S. Hᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ.

. * * * .

 


	140. - wait it -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/20/14_. I meant to post these three chapters before the weekend was over, but life got in the way. Final exams this week and work and minor surgery this coming Saturday and--WELL, you get the picture. :P Wish me luck!

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _wait it_ -  
  
. * * * .

 

If Jack didn't know any better, he'd say that Elsa was determined to touch him.

(Only, Jack _did_ know better.  
And he was still pretty convinced.)

  
(“ _And it's not just my magic that you're keeping your distance from, Jack Frost, but that's an entirely different issue that I don't even have the_ patience _to deal with at the moment, so consider yourself fortunate, in that respect._ ”)

Jack didn’t allow himself to think for even a secondthat she’d forgotten.

If anything, Elsa seemed determined to wait it out; _she_ wasn’t going to broach the subject until he did, which—knowing Elsa—could either have been one of the greatest examples of her compassion—

( _Or her cunning_.)

Here was the truly fucked up part:  
  
It would have been one thing for Jack to be—to be— _fantasizing_ about kissing her. (That’s right. He was admitting to it now. _So fucking sue him_. Didn’t mean it changed a damn thing.) Whatever. That was one thing, just to even be thinking about it—but Jack had to take it to _a whole 'nother level of fucked up_ , because not only was he thinking of _her,_ and pretending not to be, and not saying a damn word about it, but she was _aware_ that something was up, and was making deliberate efforts to push him out of his shell ( _or back him into a corner_ ), to coax him or trick him or lead him into fessing up, and the worst, absolute worst part of it all was that—

He liked it.  
  
Jack— _liked_ —her determination. For once, _Elsa_ was the one pushing the boundaries. She was the one testing the limits, with her little gestures and her fleeting touches. Her furtive looks and furrowed brows.

Jack Frost knew a game when he saw one.

And if that wasn't the most pathetic thing Jack had ever heard.

( _So—_ )

  
If he backed off too hard, too quickly, her suspicion would grow. ( _She’d get hurt. She’d push harder. She’d fight back_.) If he distanced himself altogether, she’d see right through him ( _and then she’d be furious, gaze would haze with red_ ). If he played along, continued their dance, kept afloat on the waves ( _give-and-take, one step forward, two steps back_ ), they would go nowhere, delay the inevitable ( _she was gonna leave him, anyway, one day_ ), and quite possibly make things worse. He could tell her, openly, ( _like an honest, decent sort of person would_ ) why he had a hard time looking her in the eye, but that would mean that she would _know_ ( _that she would see him for what he really was_ ) and she might not like what she’d see ( _just a Shepherd’s boy, as lost and as lonely as she was_ ), and there was already so much ( _so much_ ) at stake as it was. ( _She might be offended. She’d be uncomfortable._  
  
She wouldn’t trust him, anymore.)  
  
The only truly decent thing to do was the one thing Jack would never.

( _Because Jack was as selfish as he was lonely,_  
 _and to willingly leave Elsa simply wasn’t a possibility._  
  
 _If he wasn’t Elsa’s,_  
 _what was he, really?_ )

  
Jack needed to be careful. Elsa thought she was playing a game ( _but she didn’t know the stakes, she didn’t know, she didn’t_ ) and if anything were to happen ( _if she had any idea what he thought of her—or how_ ), then the whole thing could be ruined. _Yeah_ —it was natural and understandable for _her_ to be harboring those kinds of thoughts about a potential suitor, in _her_ Dreams—( _her daydreams?_ )—or wherever or whenever she deigned to think that way, but for someone to have them _about_ her—by her _Guardian_ , no less?

It betrayed the very essence of the word.

. * * * .

 


	141. - a little -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/20/14_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. * * * .  
  


\- _a little_ -  
  


. * * * .

 

She was still obviously very engrossed by it, because it'd been at least ten minutes since she'd forced herself to pull away from Henrik's most recent letter and interact with him, and he could _tell_ that she was still affected by it. Nobody could blame him for being a little protective.

“Did he say something to you?” Jack asked, as indignation coiled in his stomach. “Finally guilt you for not coming to the Summit?”

A soft breath of laughter floated into the air, and Elsa steadily moved a knight forward on the board. _“_ On the contrary,” Elsa assured him, soft and almost muffled. “He was very supportive, but made it known that my disappointment was shared.” She gestured for him to make his next move, but the last thing on Jack’s mind was chess. “It actually helped, a little,” she added, when Jack offered no comment. “But that conversation ended ages ago. We haven’t mentioned it since.”

There was something halting in her tone. Frowning, Jack peered closer. “So what is it?”

Elsa looked halfway torn between relieved and disappointed. “He... has invited me to the autumnal festival and the Yule Ball,” she revealed, quiet with something Jack couldn’t place, and her forlorn gaze trailed once more to the newest letter upon her desk. “I've been wondering, all day, how I could possibly tell him that I won't be going.”

Jack paused. “Oh.”

Well, shit.

  
Elsa sighed, heavy and grim, effectively breaking his train of possible things to say from the _stuff-that-might-console-Elsa_ box in his brain. It was pretty useless, lately.  
  
“I'm no fool, Jack,” she announced wryly, with a bitter twist that Jack wasn’t sure he appreciated. He was about to ask, when Elsa’s eyes took on a meaningful gleam. “It's been over a year since he's seen my face. His interest will not sustain on letters alone.”

Hot unease flooded into his chest. Feeling his face burn for too many reasons he did not want to name, Jack cleared his throat and shrugged. “Send a picture?”  
  
He expected the exasperation; he did _not_ expect the amusement.  
  
But it faded quickly.  
  
“I fear it’s one of the reasons why it was so crucial that I attend the Summit,” she admitted quietly, lost in thought. “Even if I’ve realized that my attendance would not have been for the right reasons...” Elsa sighed a long breath. “We were to begin the arranging of a marriage.”  
  
Well, _shit_.

“Oh,” Jack swallowed.  
  
Elsa glanced to him suddenly, speculative and assessing. He tried not to shuffle back in alarm. Elsa only really got that look on her face when she was about to—

  
“Can I speak honestly?” Elsa asked him, fervent and fierce, and _always_ was on the tip of his tongue, and _do you even need to ask?_ and _hell no, not if what you’re gonna talk about starts with side and ends with bur--_ “Silly question,” Elsa shook her head quickly, leaning forward. “Of course I can.”  
  
“Of course,” Jack echoed mindlessly, and-- _well then_ , now he was actually leaning back and away from her, great. Just--great.  
  
“It’s just so... _frustrating_ , you see?” Elsa was telling him, face twisting and contorting in a rare show of animation. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands were moving through the air--dangerously close, if he did say so, himself--and her eyes were sparking with all sorts of outrage. “I _know_ there aren’t many other eligible matches out there, so in a sense I am at an advantage because the selection is so slim, and I _am_ theoretically one of the most valuable prospects, if not for my dowry then at least for my name and connections, and our kingdom’s reputation--”  
  
“Whoah, Elsa--”  
  
“And the trajectory of our wealth is only predicted to grow with the new trading agreements with Corona now that Princess Rapunzel has returned, and it’s not like we really _need_ to conduct business with Weselton, truly--”  
  
“ _Yo_ \--Elsa.”  
  
“And I _know_ for a fact that there are other potential matches out there who are vying for his attention, and I _know_ that he is no doubt under pressure from his father to secure a match before his younger brother does--though he would never actually say anything of the sort, under any circumstances--I _know_ it is one of the surest points of stress for him, and--you know--perhaps it _would_ be more prudent for him to court a lady of lower status, instead. Someone who could attend galas and other significant events with him, and someone who could actually _accept_ his invitations for once, who could dance with him at balls and--I _know_ , of course, that my prospects are handsome enough and _I,_ myself, am beautiful, but _almost two years?_ How can I _possibly_ expect him to continue such attention after almost _two_ years of not having seen my face, or heard my voice--”  
  
“All right, _Elsa,_ enough. Listen to me, all right? If he doesn’t--you know-- _appreciate_ all that you are, whether he sees you or not, then he doesn’t deser--”  
  
“I’m not a fool, Jack,” Elsa spat, wrenching away her wrist from his grasp. He glared with startled annoyance, and she glared right back. “This won’t last forever.”  
  
A pit, hard and cold, settled in his gut.  
  
( _Yeah,_ he thought, scathingly.

 _I know._ )

“I never said you were,” he answered, quiet and stern.  
  
She held onto her anger determinedly, for nearly half a minute more. Then, all it once it escaped her, in a rush of air that chilled his very bones. His own petty annoyance seemed so irrelevant, now.  
  
“How ridiculous,” Elsa whispered, utterly deflated, with a sad, queasy sort of laugh. He wasn’t sure what she was actually talking about, but he wasn’t sure it mattered.  
  
“So... what are your plans, then?” he asked, hesitantly. “You gonna try to get closer to him?”  
  
Elsa’s head slowly dipped to the side, but her eyes were very far away. “Perhaps,” was all she said.  
  
Silence.  
  
Great.

( _Nice job, Jack._ )  
  
“He... _is_ a decent man, you know,” Elsa said, not long after. Jack’s gaze inevitably sought hers, but she was too busy staring at the floor. (If he rolled his eyes--would she notice?) He merely watched, and waited, and listened, and eventually, Elsa added, “He’s a just ruler, as well. Arendelle would be lucky to have him.” A beat, then, “As would I.”

Jack’s jaw clenched, ever-so-slightly. _“_ Yeah, but do you like him?”

Elsa’s wide eyes found his, curious and confused. _“_ Of course I do.”

Jack scowled, inexplicably frustrated. She was really gonna make him say it? _“_ No, but—do you _love_ him?”

Elsa thought about that.

And then, to Jack’s dismay, her eyes widened further with surprise--with pleasant, unexpected realization.  
  
She answered, “I _could_.”

. * * * .

Jack was in a foul mood for the rest of the day.  
  
He hid it well, but there was a bitterness on his tongue, undeniable and ever-present. Elsa, meanwhile, looked to be in a considerably lighter mood, now that some of her sadness was off her chest-- _now that Jack wore it, instead, on his shoulders like a burden._ He realized at some point that afternoon, absently- _-the way that one might remember the month, or the date_ \--that he still hadn’t told her that he’d gone to the Summit. 

He didn't intend to, ever.

. * * * .


	142. - the inevitable -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/20/14_.

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _the inevitable_ -

. * * * .

 

It was two weeks later when the inevitable struck.

Jack could hardly consider himself prepared.

“ _Enough_ , Jack,” came Elsa's voice, cold and severe. “This strange behavior has gone on for nearly a month, and I've tried my best to respect your space as much as you have always respected mine, and I've _tried_ not to make assumptions, and I've also tried to be understanding, but it has been perfectly clear for weeks now, Jack, that you're avoiding me, and I deserve to know why.”

Jack halted, surprised.

Fuck.

The side of his tongue found the space between his teeth. He felt the air in his lungs only when they'd grown so full that they could take in no more, and by then it was leaving his body in a shuddering rush of wind, a heavy sigh, loud, and defeated.

“What's wrong?” she demanded immediately, and the force of her concern snapped Jack's eyes to hers. In spite of himself, a small smile snuck its way onto his lips. Had she expected him to put up more of a fight, then?

He already knew the answer to that.

“You're right,” Jack answered evenly, shifting a listless shrug. “I've been sort of... distant.”

Elsa's chin tilted downward with discontent. Her eyes were tight with a curious mix of exasperation and thinly-veiled concern—a rare breed of impatience.

And dread.

“I'm sorry about that,” was what Jack said, first and foremost. Elsa lifted herself to her full height, which was still just an inch or two shorter than his; her hands were folded primly in her lap, but Jack could see the tension strung through her frame from tip-to-toe. She was the perfect picture of politeness, except for how clearly she wanted to hit him.

 _She still might, actually_.

Instinctively, a lazy hand came to scratch at Jack's right temple, searching for the words. “I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?” he mumbled sheepishly, trying not to trip over his thoughts, and was jolted from his unpleasant swirl of excuses and explanations when Elsa demanded, “Are you all right?”

 _What? Yeah, of course_ , he almost said.

Almost.

Except Elsa was staring at him so earnestly, and he'd already dragged this on for long enough, and he was really sick and tired of feeding her lies.

“Not really,” he whispered.

The answer itself wasn't so much of a surprise as it was to finally hear him fess up to it, apparently. Elsa's expression remained the same, but there was something subtle in the way she tilted her head— _toward, not away_ —that made Jack think that she was preparing herself to listen just as much as he was preparing himself to speak.

“I... have a bit of a situation,” Jack began, with a bit more declaration than he might have intended. Pausing, he shifted uncomfortably on the rug, trying to root himself to the ground. “That I don't... think I'm actually qualified to handle.”

“Qualified?”

Jack hesitated. “Prepared,” he tried, instead.

“Prepared,” Elsa echoed slowly, watching him carefully. Jack waited, too, in case she intended to prompt him along, but it seemed that Elsa had _learned_ over the years; she remained silent, knowing that if she let them sit in the silence for long enough, she was sure to draw out his words— _without_ providing her assumptions. (Or an _out_ , in his case, for better or worse.)

He was stuck.

His throat was tight and his mind felt dizzy, and when he tried to speak everything got clogged in his throat. ( _Where do you even start? How much should you even tell?_ ) His heart was growing louder in his ears, and the air around him felt hazy, the way it sometimes did when he was flying, and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the floor beneath him, or the smells around him, or the warmth radiating from the hearth, Jack's head grew fuzzy and he felt like he was floating, drifting— _close, but distant—_ until Elsa's voice was calling his name, quiet but stern, soft, but urgent.

“I'm jealous,” he blurted, unthinkingly, and in the split-second that followed he couldn't have known whether it was regret he felt, or righteousness.

Elsa's eyes darted across his face—openly curious now, in a new, satisfying shade of surprise that Jack had not yet seen. His skin tingled under gaze, but Jack sat determinedly still, allowing her to drink her curiosity's fill. The truth couldn't be told— _not now, possibly not ever_ —but in this moment, Jack could pretend, could watch the possibilities flicker like light over her face.

Eventually, Elsa sorted through the questions in her mind. She, too, shifted herself into a more comfortable position on the rug, glancing briefly to the softness of her skirts. “Of whom?” she asked, carefully.

Jack almost smiled.

“I don't know,” he muttered, soft with self-deprecation. “It could be anyone, honestly. It could be everyone,” he added, for the thought only just occurred to him. “Anybody who has it easier than I do, maybe,” he decided, “Which is probably why I've tried not to mention it, considering how stupid that sort of thinking is.

Elsa didn't say anything just yet, and Jack took the opportunity to look at her.

It'd been a while since he'd let himself have even that much.

A golden twist of hair and an autumn day-dress. An elegant pair of gloves— _folded, unused, left somewhere in the drawers of her vanity_. Her cheeks were so pale, and her bangs were too long— _she hated that, when they got in her eyes_ —and her mouth was pinched into the smallest of frowns. She'd forgone the vest today, as she was growing more apt to do, the way she'd apparently always preferred it. ( _“Do you remember, Jack, when I told you how my skin loves the open air?_ ”)

“There aren't many people who could do what you do,” Elsa said quietly, and it took Jack a moment—took him a moment to realize that she was referring to his Guardian duties. (That she was speaking as if his Guardian duties were what _he_ had been referring to and, in a way—he _had_ , but—)

“It's not that,” he corrected her, before he'd thought better of it. Each second that passed felt like a pressing weight, another notch in the clamp that held tight around his chest. “It's—it's got everything to do with me _being_ a Guardian, but nothing really to do with it, either.”

“With your past?” she wondered aloud, trying to make sense of his rambling—for him, just as much as herself. “Your Memories?”

“No,” Jack shook his head, _then_ , “maybe,” and “I don't know. It is, but it isn't. I'm frustrated by—” _What I lost_. “—the opportunities that I'll never get to have, but I'm grateful for all the ones that I _do_ , but it's more than all that, it's—” _Fuck it_. “It has everything to do with _me_ , Jack—as a _person_ ,” he announced, as the words slowly clicked into place. He could almost hear them, slotting the surface, filling the voids. “And what I want.”

The words felt right, but even he only hardly understood what he was saying. ( _What_ I _want_ , his mind repeated, over and over, as if it might start to make sense. _What_ I _want_.)

And then, suddenly, it did.

“Is... that not the same as what you want as a Guardian?” Elsa tentatively ventured, as insightful as ever, and Jack could have collapsed with the relief of it, with the sheer weightlessness of such a burden being lifted from his shoulders. ( _What are you going to do,_ his mind wondered, _when she's no longer around to fill the gaps you leave behind?_ ) For this, Jack hesitated.

And then out of his mouth came the cold, undeniable truth.

“No,” he whispered. “I guess... it's not.”

Elsa breathed deeply, and for a while they only sat in the silence. If there was anyone in the world— _anyone—_ who understood the importance of duty, and sacrifice—

It was probably her.

“What is it that you want?” she asked him, like it was something simple.

( _And,_  
 _to Jack's horror,_  
 _it was a lot simpler_  
 _than he would have_

 _thought._ )

“A lot of things,” Jack admitted softly, suddenly no longer able to look at her. “Things I can't have.” _Or maybe shouldn't._ “Mainly, though, I think... I'd just like to have the promise that I won't be alone again.”  
  
(Jack almost grinned— _a ghost of a smile—_ and the thought nearly had him laughing.)  
  
Very quiet, in a mostly-unbroken voice— _through tongue, and cheek—_ he managed, “Forever's a pretty long time, y'know.”

He'd never spoken so openly about this before. His centuries of isolation, sure, because it was in the past, and he was a Guardian now—he had a _family_ now, and he had Elsa—but never, not once, had he shared the fear of _forever._

Not like this.

Elsa considered him—warmth and sadness, and friendship, all eleven years of it—and it _hurt_ , but only a little, when she placed her hand on his. He hadn't even seen her move closer. ( _And now—_ _now she was all he could—_ )

“You'll have the others,” Elsa reminded him, soft and full of unspoken truths. (Full of _one day_ 's, like: _one day, I won't need you anymore,_ and _one day—_

 _I'll die_.)

“It's not the same,” he argued, vehemently, and— _damn_ his mouth—fuck. _everything._ — because this wasn't helping, this wasn't going to do anything. _Nothing_ —except make them both feel guilty for shit they couldn't change—Elsa, for being _human_ , and Jack, for being _mostly, but not quite—_ and maybe make Jack feel like an ungrateful little shit, because as desperately as he wanted to believe that it'd be good enough to have his family of Guardians by his side for all of eternity— _desperately, he wanted it_ desperately—he couldn't ignore the fact that his idea of _family_ had taken on a broader definition, that his idea of _home_ had become too tangled a mess to unravel, and honestly, was it _fair?_

Was this wrong? To keep Toothiana tucked away in the corner of his mind, in a back pocket labeled _forever—?_ While he treasured these moments with Elsa?

( _So he could cling to them later?_ )

She was staring at him, he realized. For once, Elsa was just as speechless as he was.

Gently, Jack wrapped his fingers around hers, delicate and deliberate. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost pretend he felt the magic in them, thrumming beneath the surface.

“It's been a rough couple of weeks,” he admitted, biting a crooked grin up at her. He was disappointed; she didn't smile back.

“Have you spoken to the others about this?” Elsa nearly whispered, fraught with concern. Her hand tightened its hold around his, and soon his larger one was encased; his fingers had always been pretty long, but then again, so had Elsa's. If only he'd been able to find her a piano, he thought distractedly, that was another thing she would have excelled at. Self-discipline and all that. Musically-oriented. ( _Wait--_ ) Hadn’t she used to play, when she was little? ( _Did she still?_ ) Why had she stopped? Why had he never thought of it before, until now? What a wasted opportunity. She could have been a master by now. Could have—

“Jack?” came her voice, loud and tremulous. Jack looked up, puzzled. Her eyes were wide. How long had she been trying to get his attention? “Have you mentioned this to the others?” she repeated. “To Tooth?”

Hopelessly, he grimaced. “Elsa, that's kind of the problem,” he muttered disparagingly, and let himself be soothed by the smooth strokes of her fingers over his hands. Then, a shaky laugh, and, “Actually... _she's_ kinda the heart of the problem.”

Elsa's fingers paused.

Startled, Jack glanced up to Elsa's face, heart pounding in his chest, but she wasn't looking at him. Seamlessly, her soft strokes resumed, and soon Elsa was playing with his hands the way he sometimes did with hers. It'd always been very calming for him— _the way he'd hoped it was for her_ —the way he'd trace the lines and travel the creases, outlining the dips and ridges of each finger—and he was very much distracted by the sensations sparking beneath his skin, the almost-painful way his own magic wished desperately to rush to the surface.

“How _are_ things with Tooth?” she asked, curiously, as the smooth ridge of her nail dragged along the inside of his pinky finger, then slipped over the tip—the soft pad of her finger, sliding down to his wrist. Over the slender bone. Up again.

His mouth was dry.

 _They’re going well_ , he could have said, a bold-faced lie. Or was it? _It's complicated_ , he could have also said, much closer to the truth, and yet as far from it. _I couldn't tell you_ , might have been the truest, or it could have been a cop-out, the worst of them all. _I don't know_ , is what he decided, the safest and the surest, but before he could actually get out what he needed to say about Tooth— _forever—_ the soft pad of Elsa's fingertip dipped down into the valley between his ring finger and middle, and something switched, and he didn't know why, but all of a sudden—

He wasn't talking about Tooth.

"I'm being an idiot," he admitted, with a tongue like cotton, with lungs full of fresh, invigorating, _vibrant_ air. He was aware of the ground beneath him, the air around him-- _each faded blur and sharp edge_ \--his breathing; his voice; his skin, thrumming with sparks. He watched Elsa's movements, willing his hands not to shake.  
  
“What makes you say that?” Elsa asked softly, curious and cautious, like speaking too loudly might scatter him away. Who knew. It might.  
  
"I know I am,” he declared evenly, certain as ever, and he couldn’t figure out if that actually answered her question, but his hand was still held between them, her fingers drawing patterns over the back of his hand, and he swallowed. “I know it, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference."

Intrigued, Elsa glanced up, fingertips moving all the while."What is it that you’re doing that bothers you so much?”

His lips were so dry. Absently, he wet them, _thinking_. How to put this? This was delicate.  
  
Very, very delicate.

Tension rolled deeply into his shoulders, down his arms, into the stiff joints of his elbows and wrists. His hand stiffened beneath her touch, but he forced himself not to notice it. She was obviously pretending not to. Roughly, he whispered, "I don't think she has any idea how often I think about her."

( _Or how._ )

"Are you embarrassed?"

 _Wholly._ "Yes."

"Why?"

Jack considered this. Around the lump in his throat, he admitted, "Because she'd look at me differently, if she knew what went on in my head.” He swallowed then, hard. Didn’t help. A scoff, before he could stifle it: “I know for a fact that she doesn't think about me the way I think about her."

Light, and curious; the tip of Elsa's ring finger gently rode over the waves of his knuckles, then smoothed over the ridges of the back of his hand. The catch of her nail, over his veins. "How do you know?" she wondered.

( _Henrik's letters._  
 _The sheer unnaturalness of it._  
 _The betrayal of years of trust and friendship._  
 _The pure, unbridled_  
 _impossibility._ )

"Trust me,” Jack muttered, darkly. “I know."

"Oh, yes,” Elsa loftily replied, as her fingertips danced over his skin. She was teasing him. “Wise Jack knows all."

" _Listen_ ," he snapped, but she carried on, unfazed. "She just— _doesn't_ , okay? She's—too busy with other stuff, and—” _It wouldn't be right. “—_ and, anyway, she wouldn't picture me like—like _that._ She just sees me as a companion. Or something."

"And you don't see her as a companion?"

Jack scoffed—the sheer _pragmatism_ of the question—then he rolled his eyes, in spite of himself. Of fucking course. Trust Elsa to point out the _practicality_ of an unrequited attraction.

Great.

"I _just_ ,” Jack sputtered, “Well—I _do_ , but... I don't fucking know,” he scoffed, furrowing his brow. This was too fucking hard. “It's more than that."

"Well,” Elsa replied, with that same infuriatingly calm and reasonable sort of tone. “What do you see her as?"

Jack started.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

( _His purpose._ )

 

 

 

( _His humanity_.)

 

 

 

 

( _His anchor._ )

 

 

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

. * * *.

But what  
he decided on, ultimately,  
 _the safest and the surest_ , was,

“I don't know.”

. * * * .


	143. - too long -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/14/14_. Oops. Over three weeks since the last update! It's been a rough couple of weeks. :( Grad school and surgery, 5Ks and regular work, social life and so on and so forth. Thanks for your patience, everybody! Two short, quick chapters today. :)

 

. * * * .

_\- too long -_

**. * * * .**   
  


**#21 – Quiet  
** Pitch hadn't reared his ugly head in a long, long time; Jack should have been grateful—the others were—but he couldn't help thinking— _night and day, day and night_ —how long was _too_ long?  
  
 **#22 – Quirks  
** Olga still typically stayed inside Elsa's room for just a fraction too long; Pavel never seemed to remember where he put his shears; Bunny still swore like a sailor, despite how much he hated the water; Toothiana couldn't quite seem to keep her fingers out of people's mouths; Jack—well, _he_ did this thing—with his eyebrow, or whatever—and it usually got him out of trouble; Elsa would take one look at his pitiful face and laugh, and laugh, and laugh; Jack never really got out of trouble.  
  
 **#23 – Question  
** Jack stopped asking, but he still got answers; _one hundred and twenty-seven teeth—countless Memories—_ and yet, somehow still counting.  
  
 **#24 – Quarrel  
** “Listen here, ya huffaluffagus—just because we're on the bridge of bloody _November_ don't mean you can just—Oi!—blowhard, are you even listenin' to—”  
 **  
#25 – Quitting  
** “I'm not _quitting—_ I'm just focusing on my studies... honestly, Jack Frost, is all of this sulking really necessary?”  
 **  
#26 – Jump  
** (Just when, exactly, had it become _November?_ )  
 **  
#27 – Jester  
** “Yeah, okay, _real_ funny, Elsa—like no one's ever thought of the suspended-ice-bucket-hanging-above-the-slightly-ajar-window prank before; I hope you enjoy a little extra frost on your hot cocoa, missy, because you are one step away from drinking _iced_ chocolate all winter if you so much as even think about shooting another— _dammit_.”  
  
 **#28 – Jousting  
** It was official: fluffy pillows were _far_ better than swords.  
  
 **#29 – Jewel**  
There was a rumor floating around that some of Corona's most precious crown jewels had gone missing—again; it was a testament to all of Flynn's hard work and Rapunzel's influence—and, perhaps, the goodness of the people of Corona—that only the Duke of Weselton suggested that the culprit might have been the groom-to-be.  
 **  
#30 – Just**  
It turned out that Pascal had been using Rapunzel's crown as a tent; oops. 

. * * * .

 

 


	144. - let it -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/14/14_.

 

. * * * .

_\- let it -_

. * * * .

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**. * * * .**

**. M O M E N T U M .**

 

For the first time in forever, Jack visited Elsa at night.

It'd been weeks since the last time Jack had slipped in through her window under the Moon's watchful eye and, to be perfectly honest, he'd had every intention of keeping it that way.

But.

Bunny's words were ricocheting round his head, and it wasn't even a New Moon, and here he was: floating over the fjord, making his way towards the castle under a brilliant night sky—thrumming with magic and light and color. _The Aurora is up_ , Jack had realized.

He'd thought she might be watching it.

But she wasn't; Elsa was sound asleep, curled under a thick, woven blanket at the window, her bare hand resting gently near her cheek. The twist of her hair had unraveled, and a familiar braid tucked itself under the cover, stretched upon a single, familiar pillow. It was barely a moment before Jack was fighting against the sudden weight, the familiar burden of convincing himself that _everything is gonna be okay._ Through the heavy trappings of his heart, Jack wished that he had the energy, or the resolve, or the courage to trick her awake.

And he _would_ wake her.

( _In a moment._ )

Jack let his heaviness lean against the support of his staff and held back a tired, useless sigh.

Bunny had just been speaking in terms of _generalities—_ not actual predictions; not _Elsa,_ specifically. (Mere precautions—just talking, really.) In fact, if Jack hadn't put his foot in his mouth a few too many times, tonight's conversation might have never even happened.

But it did.

( _Witchcraft_.)

( _Sorcery._ )

 _(Dark magic._ )

Jack's brow furrowed, troubled and deep. Bunny had spoken of others—wards and assignments, all young, and some even younger—all who'd possessed the gift of magic, like Elsa.

Who'd had it used against them.

In silence, Jack drowned an unwelcome deluge of broken, clouded memories: _downturned eyes and steady strides_ ; ignoring, resolutely, the herald's disturbing reports— _talk of Salem_ —hushed whispers through the village; _terrible outrage at port_ —young women being asked to prove their innocence through death— _the high stakes and the torture, the impossible tests_. The trial by drowning, or stones, or fire. ( _Burned, and beaten, and begging_.) The memories of the nights when travelers would pass through his village with stories of horror and suspicion; how Jack stoked the fire a little higher those evenings— _burned them just a bit brighter, a little hotter_ —and stayed up a little later into the dark. His sister wasn't scared— _he wouldn't let her hear them_ —but she could tell when village tensions were high, and when something was wrong, and no matter how deeply Jack knew that not a soul from their village would _ever_ scorch such an accusation on another— _never_ —there was never a promise that an outsider wouldn't— _that they wouldn't accuse her, too_ ; so they kept to themselves, and Jack kept watch.

Even then.

Jack stared down at Elsa as he thought of those women— _young and scorned and dying_ —and tried to bring back the certainty he'd felt only just an hour ago— _that those memories were from a different time and a different place, and that people weren't always the ignorant fools they were accused of being_. That people could be rational, and open-minded. (That this was _different._ ) He'd felt a stupid, naïve sort of security in his Memories— _he_ , who had witnessed such fear and loathing firsthand—in that this world was so _unlike_ his. ( _This_ world could handle this. The King was a coward.)

And Jack, ever the fool.

Bunny's word echoed, hollow and supreme, until somehow they became his own. ( _Chains_ , thought Jack. _Cages_ and _sorcery_ and _danger_ and _power_.) Elsa was, indeed, powerful; not even North had ever discovered the true extent of her magic, and for so long Jack had simply accepted that that they might not ever know. ( _And that, maybe—it wasn't necessary._

 _Maybe there were more important things._ )

But now, Jack wondered.

 

 

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..

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And _still,_ he wondered, as uselessly as a Guardian ever could—  
How could anybody look at her and see _anything_ but light?

.

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.

(T _here was a hardness to her, yes; an edge,  
borne from time and disappointment. _

_She built walls to protect herself,_   
_to shut others out—but that didn't mean she was made of stone._   
_Everyone had darkness, but Elsa—_   
_Elsa was different._

_Not like him._ )

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She was sleeping at the window,  
like she was waiting for him.

 

 _Or maybe to be closer to the cold,_  
Jack rationalized, but  
then again, _isn't that the same thing?_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

 

“Elsa,” he whispered, his cold hand on her shoulder. He wouldn't shake her; only waited as he let the frost pull her from her dreams.

Her sleep was peaceful, but not as deep as he'd thought; her blinks were slow and heavy, too tired to even properly flutter, and then she was looking back at him with liquid eyes; lucid, but not.

He'd forgotten what he was going to say.

But then Elsa turned and shifted, glancing back through the window with slow-burgeoning awareness. A subtle stretch to her shoulder. A slight arch to her back. She marveled at what unfurled beyond the window, and Jack could pick out the precise moment that her haze faded away. Elsa looked at the night, and whispered, “The sky's awake.”

His lips quirked even without his meaning to, and he laughed, just a little, at the nature of her surprise. “Suppose it is _,”_ he quipped, his smile wry. Then, “Guess I'm not the only restless one out there.”

A look crossed Elsa's face that he didn't understand, and suddenly Jack felt like he'd done something wrong. He was halfway through an apology he didn't realize he was making when Elsa shifted her whole body to face him and asked, “Will you take me to the roof?”

Jack started, tongue stuck dry to the ridge of his teeth. ( _She's never, ever asked for this before_.) And then she was on her feet, gathering her robe more tightly around her neck, and draping the blanket more securely over her shoulders. Jack shot quickly to his own and waited, almost awkwardly in his curiosity, until Elsa finished with her layers and smiled warmly at him— _mischievously?—_ and held out her hand, like _she_ was leading _him_.

Well, then.

Jack still had no idea how they got so lucky—how no one was in the back western corridor when they traipsed down through the shadows, or how they managed to climb out in the darkness through the window in the servants' least favorite broom closet ( _the one that faced the fjord directly, hidden from the heart of town by a nice spire or two_ ) without knocking over too many buckets. They held hands like they used to, laughing and sneaking and giggling through the castle once upon a time, and the first brush of fresh air to Elsa's cheeks left a painful stretch to the strength of his smile. He ushered her up the slope of the roof, wondering only once if they should have brought her cloak or a hat— _her gloves_ —but, humanity aside, Elsa didn't seem to mind.

( _Elsa's breath was clearly visible in the night;_

 _Jack's was not._ )

The chill in his veins was _thrumming_ ; he had half a mind to take a quick spin around the castle before settling onto the roof, but he wouldn't have parted from Elsa's side in this moment for anything. Jack let them stand tall for a moment longer, taking in the splendor of a view untainted by stained glass, and then he took his careful grasp of Elsa's hand and lowered them onto the rooftop—cold, rough shingles and all. He didn't expect her to follow when he stretched himself long along the slope—thought she'd maybe want to sit a bit longer, fill her lungs with fresh air—but then she was right beside him, flat on her back and staring up at the night sky, and Jack let his head rest back against the pillow of his hands, and decided that it felt pretty right, after all.

He was about to ask her what she brought a blanket for, until she pulled him under it.

The silent panic wasn't so much crippling as it was deafening, but he still could hardly move for fear; Elsa carefully tucked herself into his shoulder— _her side: a warm, welcome thorn in his—_ and draped the blanket over the two of them, calm and cheerful as you please, then settled the back her skull against the jut of his left collarbone. And stayed there.

Jack stopped breathing, but only until he remembered that she could probably feel it. His breaths were shallow, and he would have liked to claim that it was on purpose, but it wasn't, and for a long time, it was the only sound he heard. Well. That, and his stupid heart.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured suddenly, and Jack could feel it all the way down his spine, all the way down to his toes. ( _It's beautiful_ , his mind echoed, while he merely hummed in response.)

Jack wondered, absurdly, if she felt cold—they'd never once shared a blanket, let alone under the autumn stars—but then Jack decided to stop worrying about too-thick blankets and too-cold skin; Jack decided that— _maybe—_ it was less about the chill, and more about the warmth.

( _He thought he might know a thing or two about that_.)

And they lay beside one another, with her head resting on his chest ( _his_ bony shoulder, a decent pillow; _who knew?_ ) and Jack let himself be amazed by it all—by the lights and the magic and the closeness. Elsa sighed a contented sigh—her gentle wisp of breath floating high into the night—and he realized a moment too late that her happy sigh had followed his. ( _He hadn't noticed his own, but he could feel hers—_

He was sure there was a metaphor in there, somewhere.)

“Thank you for waking me,” she whispered, a tingle down his spine. The curve of her shoulder was resting hard against his ribs; the arc of her neck curved easily over his muscle and bone; her hair, tickling his jaw. Instead of ruining her words with any of his own, Jack decided that— _maybe,_ for once—he didn't need to say anything. Maybe it would be okay to be just a little bit selfish, this time. _Maybe—_

He was suddenly overwhelmed by the lump in his throat.

Lying on a rooftop, staring up at the night sky, being _so close_ to someone like this. For so long, _he didn't believe he'd ever_ —he wasn't sure he'd ever get the chance to—

His hand slipped out from beneath his skull under the guise of dragging a heavy knuckle along his brow; if the back of his hand came to rest against his forehead— _just a shade too low_ —then who was there to see? The stinging in his eyes was just the wind, as comforting as ever, and the burning was at his side— _not his throat._ Yet there was warmth, too much or too little— _Jack didn't know_ —and it left a tightness in his chest that made it hurt to breathe, so Jack didn't bother to breathe at all.

Instead, he let it ache.

. * * * .

 

 


	145. +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/22/14_.

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.

Stomach sinking with lead, Jack stared down at the object on the desk.  
  
“What is that?” he breathed, brows drawn tight.  
  
North said nothing, at first.  
The others watched, like statues, as their leader reached toward his office window and swiftly yanked a large icicle from its pane.  
He heard Toothiana’s sigh, beside him—a breathy little gasp that had more to do with nerves and anticipation  
than any measure of surprise. Somehow, Jack knew.

He knew what it was.

But he still watched with piercing eyes as North took the ice in his hand and pushed away  
some of the lingering black sand that smothered his desk,  
and poked searchingly for the item hidden within.  
  
( _Clouds and smoke and sand,_ _from nowhere—then everywhere, all at once—_ _swirling and dripping and curling past the ice toys and snowflakes,_  
_threading itself through their hair and fur and golden sand,_ _sifting and surfing on the air they breathed—_  
_until it all disappeared, sucked in by a silent, swirling vortex—_ _all of it, save for the small dune upon the workspace of Wonder—all except for—_ )  
  
“Bloody hell,” Bunny swore, as Toothiana gasped beside him.  
Jack’s stomach dropped, and the world fell out from under him.  
  
There, at the tip of the icicle in North’s grasp, was a dreamcatcher— _black as the Nightmare King himself, its web spun sharp and broken;_  
_a spider-demon’s masterpiece, a cursed trinket from someone’s worst Nightmare,_  
_with beads like black and burning coal_ —and instead of soft,  
sacred feathers— _intended to gently guide the Dreams to safety_ —there,  
at the ends of long blades of dead, dry grass, dangled the bits and pieces of chipped, empty, broken children’s teeth.  
  
Toothiana’s shuddering breaths pierced through him,  
falling uselessly upon the icy walls, while Bunny’s curses grew louder, and North’s grip trembled enough to crack the ice.  
  
“It is a warning,” North declared, his booming voice gone quiet.  
  
Sandy’s head hung with sick realization, the same way Jack’s insides churned as Toothiana’s small,  
shivering frame fell hard against his shoulder. Bunny grew disturbingly silent in the wake of Toothiana’s quiet sobs,  
and Jack’s arms snaked around her quivering shoulders and smoothed down the length of the feathers over her arms.  
Jack took in the sharp, twisted angles of the demon’s dreamcatcher,  
staring hard at the darkness, and saw something that the others had not:

Broken teeth.  
Black sand.  
Bloody coals.  
Blades of dying grass.

_(Despair, instead of Hope.)_

_(Nightmares, in place of Dreams.)_

_(Numbness, without Wonder.)_

_(Memories, suffering a new kind of Loss.)_

  
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.Each item held a message, each intended for a different recipient;  
Jack looked to the omen, and saw each of the Guardians.  
  
Except one.

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**( VII )**

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	146. - better track -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/24/14_. Hello, everyone! Two quick updates for today. :)

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- better track -_  
  
. * * * .  


The days were passing, and not always with warning.  
Jack took it upon himself to start keeping better track.

So Jack Frost made lists, in his head;  
never written, but always remembered.

He counted what was important.

. * * * .

  * **Days Until Christmas:** 38
  * **Teeth Broken:** 14
  * **Teeth Lost:** ~~77 63~~ 77
  * **Days Since Elsa Last Trimmed Her Bangs:** 2
  * **Elves Saved From Certain Death Within the Last Month:** 4
  * **Visits to Jamie Since Graduation:** 3
  * **Visits to Kristoff Since Spring:** 7
  * **Dances with Elsa:** 0
  * **Cups of Hot Chocolate (This Week):** 49
  * **Snow Days This Season:** 300?? Ish?
  * **Witty, Flirtatious Moments with Toothiana:** 11 or 12. (Depending on who one might ask.)
  * **Pranks on Bunny:**   ~~4~~ 5
  * **Awkward Trips to Ice Caps at Mt. Kilimanjaro:** 3 _(too many)_
  * **Number of Times That He's Forgotten the Day, or the Date, or the Hour:** Too many.
  * **Number of Times He's Smiled at Toothiana And it Made Him Want to Freeze His Own Face Off:** Too many.
  * **Letters to Henrik:** Too. Many.
  * **Letters from Henrik to Elsa:** Three, which was thankfully two less than last month.
  * **Chess Games Played:** 0
  * **Number of Times Jack Caught Elsa Staring Blankly into Space Out the Window:** 7+ times a day.
  * **Number of Pages Jack Should Make Sure Elsa's New Journal Has in it Before He Wraps It for Christmas:** Shit. What'd he say earlier? 800? 900 or something?
  * **Thumb-Wrestle Matches Played:** 0
  * **Number of Tunes, Melodies, Songs, or Ditties Elsa Has Willingly Sung in Front of Jack:** 0\. Un-fucking-believable.
  * **Times Jack Has Seen Toothiana Cry in the Last Week:** He'd rather not say.
  * **Number of Dragons Jack Frost Has Met (By Accident):** 1\. (So it wasn't so much of a _meeting_ as it was Jack Frost hiding in a bush while accidentally crossing paths with Bunny's Assignment while on patrol and cowering sheepishly while a Night Fury stuck its head into the thick brush to investigate. Toothless—who did, in fact, have teeth at least _sometimes_ , Jack learned—was a little too curious for his own good. Also. Apparently, blue hoodies did not make for very good camouflage in the wild, green forests of Berk. Just a note. Jack was outta there before Hiccup could even unbuckle his saddle. _Sorry, Hiccup_ —just one ticket available for the Guardian sideshow today, and the dragon already got his money's worth.)
  * **Yeti Arguments Mediated and Resolved:** 7
  * **Yeti Arguments _Instigated_ :** 7
  * **Number of Official Reports Filed to North Via the Official Snow Globe Network:** 4
  * **Number of Official Reports Filed to North Via the Official Snow Globe Network _On-Time_ :** 3
  * **Lemon Cakes Eaten:** 0
  * **Romance Novels Anna Has Read in the Past Two Weeks:** He didn't know.
  * **Times North Has Interrupted Bunny Over Easter in Favor of Discussing Christmas:** Why bother counting?
  * **Number of Times Elsa Laughs Each Day:** Too few.
  * **New Sinkholes Spotted:** 0
  * **Biscuits Swiped During the Queen-Princess Party Planning Brunches:** 11
  * **Biscuits He Has Shared With Elsa:** 5
  * **Times He Has Let Himself Within Her Arm's Reach:** 0
  * **Times Jack Has Seen Elsa Cry in the Last Week:** 0
  * **Times Jack or Elsa Has Mentioned the Night on the Roof:** 0
  * **Nights Until the New Moon:** 12
  * **Reasons to Believe that Elsa Might Be Upset With Him:** Enough to have him worried.



. * * * .


	147. - the porcelain -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/24/14_. **Trigger Warnings:** I’ve been thinking about this a lot for a long time now… I’d hate for any element of my writing to act as an unexpected trigger for any reader, but I also want to be mindful of not giving away too many spoilers for those who may not need or want to see any trigger warning tags before reading. After a lot of thinking, I’ve decided that my priority really is making sure that I’m labeling my warnings as appropriately as possible.
> 
> So! Here’s a few: first, consider this a rest-of-the-story blanket warning for “mentions/descriptions of panic attacks,” not dissimilar to the one detailed during Elsa’s sixteenth birthday ball. I will be adding this warning, as well as “anxiety,” to the official tags for the story, and **you should expect to continue to see them**. I will also provide additional warnings at the beginning of each chapter to the best of my ability. For this chapter, both of the above tags apply.
> 
> If anyone has any comments, questions, suggestions, or concerns regarding trigger warnings (including requests for additional tags), please feel free to let me know!
> 
> Thank you!
> 
>  **Beta'd** by the lovely **Alison** and **Abby**. THANK YOU, LADIES.  <3

 

. * * * .

- _the porcelain -  
_

. * * * .

What the _fuck_.

Jack, rational and reasonable sort of soul that he was, was of course completely in control of his temper as he tore down the hallway after her. And by _completely in control_ , he actually meant _about to flip his shit_.

“Elsa!” he called, pushing forward.

 _Goddammit_ ; her steps were purposeful, and her stare was locked straight ahead. Jack Frost—having just arrived to the castle for his usual quick visit between patrols, having found Elsa not in her room but suspiciously in the hallway outside, being the inquisitive and _curious_ soul that he was—was of course _super_ interested in why Elsa was suddenly so determined to go to the library in the middle of the afternoon.  
  
Why she was deigning not to answer him.  
  
Jack scowled as Elsa strode forward, glancing back at him only out of the corner of her eye, and seriously— _the fuck?_

They very purposely only went to the library at night, so she could talk to him openly; he _hated_ it when he said something to her outside her bedroom walls, only to remember too late ( _every goddamn time_ ) that she wasn't _supposed_ to answer him back. He hated it. She _knew_ that. She— (She wasn't supposed to be able to _see_ him, in the first place. She wasn't supposed to hear him, or touch him, or see him—

but _no_ —)

(— _had to remind himself to quell the panic;  
the sharp spike of sudden, irrational, familiar fear that screamed,_

 

 **I N V I S I B L** **E** )  


“Elsa!” Jack called again, frustration rising, bordering on urgency. There was nobody around; nobody ever hung around this part of the castle at this time of day and she could _easily_ spare him a quick ' _hold on a sec'_ or a ' _quit it, Jack'_ or who even fucking cared, _anything_. Even if somebody caught her—which they wouldn't—she'd have no problem making up a little white lie, so for fuck's sake, _answer him_. He tried blowing a breeze of cold air over the back of her neck, but she pretended not to feel it. Scowling more deeply, Jack swerved in front of her, halting her in her tracks just before they neared a corner. “ _Elsa!_ ” he reprimanded, gritty and severe, and for a second, he thought she'd seen just how much trouble she was in.

But she looked right at him— _right through him—_ and carefully stepped to the side, and it was at that moment— _Jack realized—_ that Elsa was— _she was actually—_

Ignoring him.

( _Oh_ —

 

 

 _Fuck_ no.)

Pissed off didn't even begin to coverit; actual _anger_ , for the first time—at Elsa _._ (At _Elsa??_ ) True anger, and real hurt, and a deep seed of betrayal taking root in his gut; it was literally shredding his stomach apart, so he started to rip into her too, to shred apart her cool facade and her calm demeanor with words that he couldn't even remember forming in his brain—(Would he have ever used the phrase _'dick move'_ with Elsa in other circumstances? Probably not)—and it was as he was going off on her that they rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Anna.

What.

“Anna,” Elsa smiled softly, her face lit with brightness even despite her visible nerves. Holy fuck. She was so tense. ( _How had he not—?_ ) It was so obvious, her discomfort. ( _How had he missed—?_ ) “It's lovely to see you.”

Holy shit.

Jack's fingers were shaking; could Anna see him? He hadn't cloaked himself with any magic—had been doing the _opposite_ , actually, making himself as obnoxiously _present_ as possible _—_ and he knew that Anna had been able to see him recently, but she'd also been very, ah, _inebriated_ , and she'd already been sort of dreaming, and if Anna _could_ see him now then what would—

“It's been a while,” Anna remarked ineffably.

— _Elsa say?_

There was a pit sinking in Jack's gut; funny how he'd never noticed it there, to begin with. Slowly, he turned, inch by inch, expecting the worst— _hoping for the best—_ only to find Anna regarding her sister with careful, watchful eyes. ( _A cool, collected kind of disdain_.) Quickly, the pieces began to click into place: Anna couldn't see him. She, _and Elsa_ , were standing together in the hallway, not more than three feet apart. ( _The closest they'd been in—in—in how many years??_ ) Elsa was strung so tight with nervous, excited energy that Jack could barely breathe—could hardly think for how wild the blood ran through his veins. And _Anna_ —something was wrong with her. Off. Her expression was too careful, too calculated, _too much like_ —

This was no coincidence.

A wave of uncertainty flooded Jack Frost with alarming strength; _Elsa_ had planned this. She'd _known,_ somehow,that Anna would be here—she had _planned_ this.

His head felt dizzy with realization, but Elsa still stood tall—regal and polite and warm, and _holy fuck_ , what was going on? Elsa was getting reckless. (Could someone as strategic as Elsa be _reckless_? Maybe. Possibly.) The point was that she was getting _bolder,_ and he was standing next to her in the hallway, hovering near two estranged sisters who were together in close proximity for the first time in over ten years— _one who could see him, one who couldn't_ —and what in the _fuck_ was he supposed to—?

“It has,” Elsa nodded, movements gentle— _careful_ , nothing too quick, or sudden—and then her smile began to thaw, and her shoulders began to relax, little by little. “Did you enjoy the sum—”

“How long has it been, now—two months?” Anna asked, with a strange, stiltedtone that Jack had never heard before. Elsa stopped short, and Jack felt a frown curl his mouth; he'd never seen this kind of behavior from Anna. Ever. “Or is it three?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Months,” Anna answered crisply, then let that sink in. “Oh, right: _three_. I believe I caught sight of you in the parlor the day that Rapunzel's engagement was announced. You'll have to forgive my memory, of course,” Anna remarked, scathingly sweet. "Silly me."

Elsa stood silent, speechless.

“You see, while I'm so very honored that you've ventured out of your room to cross my path, I'm afraid I can't dawdle; if you'll excuse me, I have lessons I must attend.”

And with that, Anna carried on, eyes facing straight ahead. Jack was watching Elsa's face, stomach in knots, when Anna suddenly stopped short and— _over her shoulder; a conscious afterthought_ —tossed a meaningful, rather cutting, “It was lovely seeing you.”

. * * * .

“We are not always privy to the decision-making of those who care for us,” Olga replied, voice muffled through the barrier of the door. Jack had already given up on trying to get Elsa to leave, and was now pressing his ear just as flat to the wood as she was. He didn't know what was making it harder to hear: his pounding head, or his pounding heart, or the tiny crease between Elsa's furrowed brow. “Her royal highness has her _reasons,_ and we may never truly know what they are.”

“It's no excuse!”Anna declared, stabbing her quill into the page. The nib scratched along the parchment, and audibly split into two—Jack could picture it all, as Anna hastily discarded it and snatched another from her tray. Elsa's face was dreadfully pale. “Only _once_ , after a decade? Was she so frightened of venturing outside that she wouldn't even see her own sister? So frightened of losing her precious peace and quiet?”

“Your highness!” Olga's quiet astonishment was so much harder to hear. “It is not like you to speak this way!”

“Well, maybe it's time I ought to! I am _tired_ of being the one who always puts for the effort! And as soon as I stop— _bam!_ Just a few _years_ later, and suddenly— _she_ approaches _me_. And has the _audacity_ to—to smile at me! To try to make _conversation!_ To actually _expect_ that I would run to her with open arms! _Ha!_ As if we could return to what we once were, Olga. I spent _years_ knocking on locked doors... and now she's ready to take a peek outside? Well, _tough luck_ , sister, because not only am I no longer knocking— _oh_ , no—but I have _walked_ away! Literally!”

The room was silent for a moment, but Jack's head was filling fast with a dull roar; Elsa's gloved hands were flat upon the wood, just a mere inch or so from his. Her eyes were trained on the embroidery on her thumb, fixed and steely and clouded, and Jack had the sudden urge throw up.

“Do you not miss her?”

Elsa's expression faltered— _it fell, just a little_ —and Jack jerked with the restraint to reach for her; he would hold onto her later, when they'd heard enough. Until then, they couldn't miss a word. Not one.

“It's not... about how _much_ or how little I have missed her in my life, Olga,” Anna said, firm and thoughtful with finality. The quills were set aside. “The point is that I... that I _needed_ her, and she wasn't there... She was _never_ there! And yet, somehow, through all of her years of ignoring me, and avoiding me, and _shutting me out_ , she still has the time and energy to astound her tutors with her brilliance, to impress _hordes_ of guests with her self-taught waltzing, to charm her way into the heart of however many Princes of the north or south or _wherever_ , and she _dares—_ to my face—to look me in the eye with a smile and essentially ask, ' _How are you?'_ ”

Elsa was freaking out.

When had his arm snaked around her shoulders? Her waist? One second he was watching her carefully from a safe distance, and the next she was flush against his side, caught within his shield—but she didn't seem to notice. Her gloves were crushed against his chest, and her temple to his collarbones, and still, not even a faded hoodie could muffle out the strength of Anna's dismissal.

“Olga, I am _tired_ of being reminded how preferable Elsa is,” Anna sighed, loud and clear. “To _everyone._ ”

“Your highness, _please_ —no matter what has happened between the complexities of your family, you should never think, not even in your _wildest_ imaginings, that your sister would ever consciously harm you,” Olga implored her. “Please— _never_ doubt how much your sister loves you.”

“Olga...how can you _say_ that? It's like we're not even sisters! We're like—distant relatives who just happen to live in the same castle. _No—_ even that's too generous. We're not even family—we're strangers.”

It was too much.

The shaking turned to trembling and the trembling turned to quakes; Jack tucked Elsa under the pull of his chin and spirited her away to her bedroom, leaving the library far behind. He ignored the cries of protest from the Princess in his arms, and was fully prepared to take a blast to the face as soon as the door allowed them through—but it never came.

“El— _Elsa_ ,” Jack stuttered, carefully setting her feet to the floor. Her knees buckled immediately, and Jack's balance wavered as her grip on his hoodie pulled him with her to the floor. Her breaths were too shallow—too empty.

Shit.

“Elsa,” Jack repeated, steadily this time—calm, soothing tones—just like North said. “Elsa, it's okay. You're gonna be okay. We're back inside the room now. You can let it—”

“ _So—foolish,_ ” Elsa whispered, clenching her fists more fiercely into the front of his sweatshirt. “ _So_ foolish,” she rasped, heavy and broken, and Jack's too-stiff arms closed around her, fingers lacing purposefully through her hair.

“Elsa—we can go outside again. To the roof. We can go out the window and get some fresh air. You—you need space, okay? It's okay. It's—”

“All—I can think about,” Elsa gasped, wretched with gravel, “is—the sound—of her— _voice._ The look—on her— _face_.”

“ _Elsa_ —it's—”

“The streak—of gold—in her— _hair_ ,” Elsa pleaded, edges fraying, useless breaths hitching. Elsa clung more tightly— _weight pressing hard, collar stretching down, teeth knocking loud_ —so Jack ducked his head and pressed his face to her shoulder—and Jack clung tighter, too.

“The way—it felt—to— _ho-old_ her—in my— _arms._ She was— _she was—_ so small. _So_ —so small—so—”

Jack didn't argue, when she locked the door that night.

Wrung out and bled dry, Jack leaned heavily against the foot of the bed, letting his heavy limbs sprawl. Elsa's exhaustion had held her at his side for more than half an hour, but she'd taken to pacing these last few minutes, and Jack couldn't seem to find the energy needed to stop her. Or join her. Instead, he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, and forced himself not to be sick, not to scream or fight or snarl with each heavy whisper, each _conceal, don't feel_ , each lie.

He was so tired, and so was she.

( _She was just better at hiding it._ )

Not long after, Olga came with tea; Jack could have screamed at the fallacyof it all, for the polite small talk and the shared niceties. (Why was no one _talking_ about this? Why the never-ending secrets? _Whose fucking idea was it to—?_ ) Elsa thanked Olga for her surprise visit with all the grace and poise of a future-Queen, and Olga never once mentioned the red, swollen skin to her not-crying eyes, nor did either of them once mention the younger Princess; Jack watched on from his post, listless and lethargic, and decided that he could feel more strongly about all this in the morning. For now—he had hardly anything left in him to feel.

Olga set a pot of hot tea on a tray at Elsa's bedside table, and then quietly left. Elsa tried to offer him a smile as soon as she locked the door—it was meant to be reassuring, maybe, or apologetic. Jack ignored the dull throbbing in his chest and offered a salute, drowsy and half-hearted—but perhaps also satisfied and accepting, and soon Elsa's smile melted into something far more real. He realized, a fraction too late, that he was smiling back.

He was still smiling when Elsa moved the tray to where he sat upon the floor, and smoothly lowered herself down to join him. The air was still thick, but his heart felt lighter— _and he was even cracking a joke, believe it or not_ —throat rasping and head heavy, when Elsa removed her gloves to touch the handle with her bare hand, and the porcelain cracked.

. * * * .

 


	148. - the gesture -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/27/14_. Happy 1st Anniversary of Frozen! :) And Happy Thanksgiving to any of you who are celebrating it today! And in the spirit of the day:
> 
> Please allow me to offer up ANOTHER HUGE HEARTFELT THANKS to anyone and everyone who has ever read, commented, reviewed, or left kudos on this story. Thank you to all those who wrote nice messages in my tumblr askbox, who've asked questions and shared reactions and flat-out texted me with the sole intention of yelling at me over the newest developments of a chapter update. (You know who you are.) THANK YOU THANK YOU to everyone who has ever drawn a piece of fanart for this story (or, if you're **[chickensaredoodling](http://chickensaredoodling.tumblr.com)** , a veritable collection) or made a fanvideo or cosplayed (*cough _aicosu_ cough*) or literally anything. THANK YOU TO **ALISON** and **ABBY** for beta-ing this chapter.  <3
> 
> :)

 

. * * * .  
  
- _the gesture_ -  
  
. * * * .

  
In the three days that followed...

  
. * * * .

The immediate reaction to the cracking of the teapot was both reassuring and alarming.

Jack, for his part, somehow seemed to be the one _least_ in control of his impulses; she gasped the loudest, but he moved the quickest.

Even later on, Jack never actually discerned who had frozen the hot tea inside the broken pot— _whether it was him or her, quick-reflexes or quick-thinking, Frost Knave or Ice Princess_ —but the carpet lived to see another day, so-to-speak, and once Elsa had remembered to let go of her own troubled, wringing hands— _once the useless shards of porcelain were discarded into the bin_ —the teapot incident was not mentioned again.

For a time.

. * * * .

Elsa was discouraged; she wanted to fix things, but _Jack, I don't know how._

So Elsa and her Guardian decided to change tactics, just for a little while. Despite her determination to explore many other interests and hobbies— _like seeing long-lost sisters or thawing frozen hearts_ —Elsa turned her attention back to her powers.

Because that's what she could control.

Jack would have been lying if he'd said that he wasn't at least a little glad for it; he spent a morning or two conflicting over the less-than-ideal circumstances—but then again, were they _ever_ ideal?—and that was the end of that turmoil.

Anyway, out of everything _else_ that was going on, this seemed to be the least of their worries.

If Elsa was just a little too silent, and Jack was just a little too reserved, then neither of them felt the need to mention it.

. * * * .

On the second day after the Teapot Incident, Jack realized:

He was still angry with Elsa.

It scraped at the inner-walls of his stomach, and clouded his head with white, dull noise when she was speaking. His jaw was tight, and it clicked sometimes, when he shifted and swallowed with strain. His palm was stiff as it held his chin, and his joints were rigid and aching with effort. His head hurt.

But Elsa was in pain, and that was far more important than Jack's own petty, insecurity-driven angst. After almost a whole day of pensive, troubled silence, Elsa found her voice. She'd decided that she wanted to try to see Anna again, handle it _better_ this time—but she needed to be patient. Even though it hurt, even though the last thing she wanted to do was give her sister more distance, Anna... needed her space. (“ _Anna has been hurt,”_ she'd whispered, “ _She has every right to feel angry,”_ and Jack had merely nodded, mute.) Elsa needed to respect her sister's wishes, the same way she would wish for her own.

( _“If_ I _ever needed that distance_ —

[— _and she had,_ thought Jack,  
 _over and over again,_ more than she probably knew—]

 _then I would want it to be respected...  
I wouldn't want anybody coming after me.”_ )

   
There was something about her words that settled wrongly in his gut. He should have said something then, but Jack fought against it, hard, and won.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, but it only made things worse.

. * * *.

“Why don't you just tell Anna the truth?”

Elsa's hands froze mid-air, halting the gentle swirl of flurried fog and cold mist that spilled from her fingertips. She turned to him, face guarded, and Jack stared back, unabashed.

“You don't know why?” she asked him, slow and curious, and Jack resisted the urge to cross his arms.

He held her gaze for a moment more, then dropped his head back onto the thick throw pillow at the windowsill where he lay. The snowball in his hand felt suspiciously hard and heavy, so he wordlessly tossed it into the air. It dropped into his palm with cold finality, so he tossed it up again.

Elsa watched him play his own game of catch for a little while, obviously expecting him to continue, but Jack was all out of words. He was sure he could find them somewhere, if he looked, but Jack didn't feel like doing all the talking today.

His fingers fumbled with the snowball, but he captured it at the last moment, before it fell to the side. Elsa's eyes were on him, and the curiosity was slowly dripping into something else.

Something harder.

“You think it's because of my parents' decree,” Elsa noted quietly, her own magic forgotten. Toss _—catch._ Toss _—catch._

His jaw tilted imperceptibly to the side, just barely in her direction. The grim heaviness in his stomach was back, making itself quickly known in the worst ways possible, and when his jaw clicked with tension, it wasn't consciously so.

“You'd rather I interfere with the Troll King's magic?” Elsa asked him, with a new tightness that prickled the skin at the back of his neck. Jack kept his gaze trained sorely on the ceiling, feeling his limbs grow heavier and lighter all at once; it was a struggle to lift his arm at all, but the burn made the effort worthwhile. Blood scratched through his veins, and his throat felt tight, but he didn't mind.

Jack realized, with a no small measure of hot relief, that he was itching for a fight.

“Doesn't seem to matter what I'd rather,” he magnanimously replied, slick with challenge, and resignation, and a fierce clingingto truth. Elsa's whole form radiated shock, and then everything began to shudder into place.

“Do you not recall a prophecy made by a certain Troll King?” Elsa added, with a note of incredulity that drew her closer. Jack's chest seized in a little spastic fit, but then it was over, and the aching tightness remained. Toss— _catch_. “That my greatest enemy would be—”

“I _know_ who your greatest enemy will be,” Jack snapped. He'd twisted slightly in his place, to glare for just a moment, which was _fine_ , because Elsa was already glaring.

Until.

The tension between them took a different turn, and Elsa poised her head curiously, in wait. Jack stared back, perplexed and dissatisfied, and unwilling to break the silence.

And then Elsa whispered, “ _Who..._ my greatest enemy will be?”

Jack Frost paled.

With great effort and slightly-shaking fingers, Jack resolutely turned back to the ceiling. _Toss_ —

— _catch_.

“What is going _on_ with you?” she demanded, voice hushed and strained, practically vibrating with it. Jack sucked in a silent breath, filling his lungs up with frigid air, locking his jaw up tight. His lack of answer did little to help her tone, and Jack's veins thrummed with magic and anticipation when Elsa drew closer to his side, glaring expectantly down at his impassive face. _Toss—_

The snowball exploded against the glass. Jack had felt the winds change almost immediately, and the ball of ice was ripped from his current like a limb from his body. Jack's head swiveled towards hers, indignant and irate, where he met her stony gaze with a look of betrayal all his own.

“If you've got something to say, Jack Frost, then just _say_ it,” she seethed.

He hadn't planned on letting any of it out, on opening his mouth, but—

Jack used both hands to push himself off of the sill, raising himself to his full height, and Elsa's mask didn't falter, even as her feet stumbled one step back. His blood was practically singing with the tension running through him—and he could feel it in hers, too.

“You didn't tell me you were going to try to see Anna,” he spit out, which was not the first thing that had come to mind, and really wasn't the most cutting of all the issues he had left to strike, but it was what came out. Grim and firm, he hissed, “I could have helped you!”

Elsa blinked in astonishment. Her eyes seemed to ask— _this_ is why you're so upset?— _but no_ , thought Jack, it really, really wasn't. Not all of it.

“I've been talking of seeing Anna again for _years_ , Jack,” she reminded him quietly. “You knew what I wanted to do.”

“Yeah, but not _when_!” Jack hissed, feeling his shattering chest rise and fall. _Breathe, Jack_. He had to remind himself. “I could have gotten here earlier! Could have helped you wrangle her someplace _different_.”  
  
“For what _purpose_ , Jack?”

Her exasperation aggravated him. “Are you forgetting who I am?” he demanded, seriously offended. “You have no idea how much can be fixed with Fun,” Jack growled. ( _He knew;_ he knew firsthand.) “I could have used magic! I could have—”

“I will not win back my sister's love with _tricks_ , Jack Frost!” Elsa hissed, and he'd never heard her so insulted in her life.

Jack blinked, absolutely astounded. “I wasn't saying that you would!” he defended hotly, face flushing with an inexplicable rush of embarrassment and uncertainty.

( _Elsa was six-years-old again, cradling little Anna in her arms,_  
promising that Guardian _was just a story, a myth,_  
 _and that no one, no magic would ever take_  
 _her away, not ever._ )

 Jack's eyes suddenly burned.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” he continued, trying to reel in his own growing impatience and indignation, “that we could have taken her someplace besides a _hallway_ ,” where she couldn’t even look at him, “where she'd have been more receptive—like the kitchens, or the gardens—”

“Or the ballroom?”

Jack stared down at her, feeling his chest clench shut. Elsa's features were the beautiful bricks on a blank wall, but her eyes hinted at anger. He didn't know how to respond.

“This castle has memories _everywhere_ , Jack,” Elsa whispered, voice still tight as a piano string. “I can hardly go from one room to the next without being reminded of at least one of the ways I have neglected her, or betrayed her. Or hurt her.” Her eyes were soft with a plea for understanding, but hard with the same unyielding conviction that Jack recognized so well from her father.

In so many ways, he hated it.

At last, Jack shifted his weight— _right to left_ —and as Elsa unconsciously did the same, he frowned; the bottom lip that had gotten caught between his teeth slipped free, and Jack suddenly decided that things were growing too calm. She hadn't really answered his question.

And this really wasn't what he wanted to talk about.

“That doesn't explain why you didn't tell me,” he pointed out, his own gaze hardening once more. No more getting sidetracked.

“You don't always tell _me_ everything that you're about to do,” she retorted, and Jack's nose scrunched with the insult.

 _That's different!_ wouldn't really go over very well in an argument with Elsa, and it wasn't really at the heart of his problem. Anger flooded through him—sudden and swift, and in a breath, Jack was even closer.

“Because I _can't_ ,” Jack hissed, and Elsa's spiteful glare pounded through him—his heart swelled and constricted all at once. “Because there are things that I'm not allowed to tell anyone!” _Because there's things that I don't understand!_ “But you know was well as I do that if there's ever _anything_ that I can share with you—that I can tell you, or show you—then I fucking do it, I fucking tell you everything I can.”

She regarded him very seriously. For a long moment, he merely breathed— _in and out_ —watching her reaction. His face felt flushed, and he realized with a start that hers was, too. Carefully, she watched him, and in the silence Jack clung to the heat in his veins, to the anger begging to be riled. He _wanted_ to stay mad. It was so much easier than anything else.

Just when he was about to crack, Elsa lifted her chin a fraction higher— _defiance_ —and held his gaze— _challenge_ —and watched him, every flicker upon his face.

So quiet, she whispered, “Everything, Jack?”

White noise roared in his head. His whole body felt locked in place, and his breathing felt useless and heavy. ( _Why bother at all?_ he wondered briefly, then remembered the _ache_ —the emptiness he felt, and the way he sometimes let his lungs flow empty and hollow— _insides matching insides—_ and remembered why the burn was so much better.)

“You left me out,” he gritted, his hoarse voice but a whisper. Elsa's lashes fluttered, and Jack realized how very close she was. He could pull her into his arms, easily. He could hold tight to her and never let go, and _she might let him_ , and that was terror suddenly crawling down his spine.

His answer didn't seem to be what she'd been looking for— _fine, good—_ and Jack held his ground as Elsa's surprise gave way to a new wave of frustration and confusion, impatience and annoyance, all the same. Her scoff surprised him—sharp and cold—and then she'd turned away, storming across her room with her bare hands clenched and clawed at her front, at her sides—they were moving so little, but with such drastic resolve, and suddenly, Jack Frost was twice as pissed off all over again.

“Don't you get it?” he called after her, determined to hold his ground—in whatever meaning of the word. His thoughts were getting jumbled, and he couldn't keep his reasons straight anymore. That was _twice_ Elsa had turned her back on him in twice as many days, and he was sick of it. “This whole sham is fucking ridiculous!” he growled, letting the heat rise up and take him. His face was so hot it almost hurt. “There's no reason for why the two of you need to keep torturing yourselves over—”

“How _dare_ you!” Elsa seethed, face whipping round. She glared at him, appalled, and he wanted to hit something. The wall. A table. The window or mirror or— “Have you forgotten _everything_?” she demanded. “For what reason do you think I am in this room, Jack Frost? It is not nearly as much for my protection—”

“ _Protection?_ ”

“—as it is for _hers_ , and our kingdom's, and our future!”

“It's a fucking prison!” Jack snarled.

Elsa was silent with lividity. “It is a _cage_ ,” she spoke at last, low and dangerous, “and I _hate_ it more than even you could probably understand, though I might have supposed that _you_ would know better than anyone, but that is what a cage _is,_ Jack Frost, that is what a cage _does_.”

“You think her ignorance will protect her?” Jack shouted, blood practically boiling. Everything was spilling over now. _So many years_. “You think being in the _dark_ will keep her any safer from magic, or cruelty—?” Jack cut himself off, getting lost in his own words, in his own indignant rage. “You're so goddamned convinced that you're a danger to her, but she's in just as much danger no matter what she knows, so what the fuck difference does it make whether or not she knows the truth? At least then you could be together!” Jack roared. “She's not an idiot!”

Elsa looked absolutely beside herself with rage, but Jack couldn't calm his heart, couldn't calm the words beating their way out of his chest. _Too long_. They'd waited too long for his, too many years of beating around the bush, of ducking their heads and going along, of pushing aside the things that really mattered because _that's what the Trolls cautioned, that's what the King decided_.

_Too fucking—_

“ _You_ of all people should know better,” she spat, and Jack momentarily stilled, feeling the honest cut of her voice all the way down to his shaking core. “You think I don't know how capable she is?”

Somehow, this invigorated him just as much as it tore at him. “You could give up this whole stupid fucking charade and tell her the truth!”

“The _truth_ is what's dangerous!” she snarled back. “ _That's_ what will get us killed!”

Panic seized and spotted along his sternum; Jack ignored the sinking in his gut and demanded, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don't be such a fool, Jack,” Elsa hissed, eyes blurring with emotion. “You honestly think that Anna would be able to keep such a secret? Even if she achieved the physical restraint, the emotional strain would tear her apart!"

"And it's not _now?"_

"It is not her burden to bear!” Elsa insisted severely.

Why the hell was she being so quiet? Jack felt like he could scream so loud he might tear out his throat, and yet she was low and dangerous, and all at once, _he realized_ —someone might hear her.  
  
She was practically vibrating with it—the emotion, the tension—and yet she kept herself in check— _spitting acid instead of breathing fire, clenched fists instead of open palms, and not one single, fucking snowflake_ —and it _infuriated_ him, fucking ate away at him that she wanted to shout and scream, _like he did,_ but she didn’t, wouldn’t let herself—that _he_ could contribute to this stupid cage just as much as its walls did. ( _She wasn't supposed to hear him,_ came the poison, and Jack shook his head frantically, blinking it away. _She wasn’t supposed to see him. Or touch him. Or glare at him, or shout at him, or fight with him, or forgive him, or_ —)

Something shifted abruptly, and her voice filtered back into his ears, and the hollow fear was replaced by even greater anger, all the frustration and self-loathing and hopelessness, coiled up inside his veins and erupting inside his chest. “She shouldn’t have to feel that responsibility!” she was arguing, and Jack felt like shouting all over again. “To have to live with that kind of knowledge would only bring more misery upon her!”

“You would be together!”

“And she would be responsible for my life!” Elsa cried. “Her secrecy would ensure my safety, and her failure would mean the end of _everything_!”

“And you don't trust her to do it!”

For a moment, she said nothing; a strange feeling of foreboding washed through him, but his contemplation was interrupted with a sharp sigh and a choke of laughter.  
  
“I don't trust what others would do,” Elsa whispered slowly, with an air of defeat that came from nowhere, so fast it made him dizzy. “There are people who would go far, and do much, to test the limits of that trust.”

Jack stilled, unwilling to understand. Trying not to sway on his feet, he narrowed his eyes at her. “What… what do you mean?” Elsa looked at him, long and lost; her eyes were deep with resignation.  
  
“I know what happened to Rapunzel in that tower,” she whispered. Jack's blood ran cold. “Is it really so hard to imagine Anna in her place?”

His whole body recoiled from the very idea. He turned away with a grimace, refusing to let her words in, and yet somehow they invaded, anyway.

“I come at a very valuable price,” whispered Elsa, “even without my powers. What lengths do you think someone might be willing to go to acquire a bit of information?” she asked lightly, and Jack felt sick, felt sick that they were even _talking_ about this, that this kind of world existed, and worse, that Elsa knew about it, _understood_ it.

Prepared for it.

Jack's hand reached out involuntarily for the wall, bracing himself against the stupid rosemaling wallpaper, while Elsa's voice echoed in his ears. “She is more open and trusting than most, despite everything, and it would not be so difficult for someone to take advantage of her naivete.”

Such calm, in her voice. Such evenness, and yet Jack knew it immediately for the farce it was, the cold terror trickling through her veins. The room was devoid of flurries, of snowflakes or ice or fog, but Jack couldn't appreciate it—the _control—_ because of everything it represented, everything it left undone, everything that had placed them here, in this room, in the first place.  
  
“And even now, there are far worse things that someone could do,” Elsa continued, voice thoughtful with a morbid sort of interest that screamed of detachment, of compartmentalization, and Jack fell harder against the wall, bracing his forehead against his forearm. He couldn't listen to Elsa talk like this.

“Elsa,” he called, voice hoarse, eyes closed.

“They could torture her,” she whispered, lost in it now, in the possibilities. “Either in pursuit of discovery, or after it. And then what's left to stop them from suspecting _her?_ ” Elsa asked, eyes strangely blank. Jack had turned around, unable to hear her words without watching her face. “Nothing... except the fact that she's so clearly innocent,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “And that she knows nothing.”

Jack's hands hung empty at his sides, numb and drained. This—this was not what he'd intended to talk about, when this whole debacle began. He—he _understood_ Elsa's reasoning, but the point was moot because—

“Elsa, nothing is going to happen to you,” he assured her, and he was so angry at his hollow voice, at the tiredness that betrayed his conviction. He cleared his throat with a tight swallow, and shook his head and closed his eyes, and this time when he looked at her, he felt more like himself. “Not you, or Anna.”

Elsa swayed for a moment, silent in thought, and when she crossed her arms he could see how heavy they must have felt, wondered at how heavy his own bare feet felt on the floor. How long it would take him to find his way across the room.

“You can't promise that,” she whispered, staring at the crooked frost that lined his front.

Jack hesitated, then slowly put one foot in front of another. She was by the vanity now, and in the corner of his eye, he could see the strain of her shoulders in the reflection. He could see himself approaching, and the sure but subtle way that she shifted towards him when he neared, like she was aching to reach out to him just as much as he ached to reach out for her.

And he would.

( _He would_.)

But he needed to know something first.

“Elsa,” he said gently, beginning anew. _Third time's the charm_. If he didn't get his answer now, then he might not ever; he'd have to decide what to do with that, later. She lifted her gaze to his, an impenetrable mask— _she was tired, just tired_ —but the heavy numbness that had lined his stomach hardened and turned cold. That expression now affected him in ways it hadn't, before. He wondered if it might ever be the same again. Hardened, Jack Frost looked down at his assignment, cold in the eye, and asked, “What were you thinking?”

Her expression crumpled. Jack watched, stomach knotting, as Elsa's brows furrowed and her lip trembled— _as she caught it between her teeth_ —and she hugged herself with her arms. Jack dutifully kept himself at arm's length— _his duty to himself, to her_ —and he wondered what she thought of it, if at this moment in time— _after so many weeks of reservation, of strange behavior_ —if she found his distance strange or common or disconcerting, if she was disappointed or relieved or unsure. If she recognized the differences in his motives, the worlds of difference between all the many weeks of restraint, and now.

“I just wanted to see her again,” Elsa tried, hushed and cracking. Her arms clung more tightly around herself, and Jack _ached_. “I just—I couldn't wait any longer. It was—an impulse.”

Jack found himself relieved by her revelation just as much as he was disturbed by it. Inhaling deeply, he found the will to slide his hands into his pockets, and he stood there, thinking over his words. Elsa had noticed his hands.

“ _I'm_ the one who acts on impulses,” Jack noted quietly, thoughtfully. “Not you.”

Her sudden bout of anger was swift, but not as swift as her surprise—there and gone in a flash. Neither of them were being very predictable today, and neither of them seemed quite prepared for it.

“Do you think that I don't have them, Jack?” Elsa asked through a near hiss, eyes full of meaning that he didn’t understand. Jack's brows contorted in bizarre confusion.

“What?” he muttered, looking at her with a new spread of awareness. She was upset with him all over again. “No!” he countered instantly, marveling at the sheer force of her anger. He had a feeling that there was a lot more going on _there,_ too, more than he understood himself, but _one thing at a time, Jack—don't get lost in it._ “I think you've always been better at _listening_ to them!” he argued, “And _thinking_ about the consequences before acting on them!” _The way I don't—the way I always get into trouble, or make a mess of things, or get someone—_ “And deciding for yourself, rather than letting yourself be controlled by them!”

“Am I not allowed?” she challenged, and it was nearly a taunt. Jack frowned deeply. She— _she doesn't understand,_ he realized all at once. Of course, he'd already known that. ( _She never would have done it—_ what she did— _if she'd known. If she'd known what she'd truly done_. The hard part was—

He didn't think he'd ever have to explain it to her.)

For a moment, Jack didn't say anything. His words were suddenly caught in his throat.

Elsa noticed the shift immediately. Alarmed, Elsa's anger solidified into concern, and she second-guessed herself when her hands slipped away from her arms to reach for him. Well. It was a bit backwards, but—

 _If that isn't familiar_.

“Jack?”

His mouth opened, presumably to speak, but his throat was clogged shut. He'd spent so many days stewing over the untouched _need_ to tell her, but as usual, he'd spent no time considering what it was that he was supposed to say. ( _How could he tell her something like this?  
_

 _How could she not already know?_ )

Fear suddenly gripped him; he didn't want to tell her. Not anymore. He'd take it all back, bury it deep inside himself and keep it hidden where Elsa couldn't see, where Elsa couldn't take it to heart or dig herself a hole with it, where Elsa couldn't keep herself up late at night with guilt and regret and self-loathing the way she did with so much else, the way he knew now, suddenly, always, that she would. She would, anyways. He clammed up.

“ _Jack?_ ” Elsa whispered, insistently, shuffling the tiniest bit closer, and a sharp exhale escaped him, choked him with the need for her to reach out and to touch him, to _remind_ him—

“You let me think that you couldn't hear me,” Jack accused, soft as a whisper. Elsa's face was open and unsure, and he realized once more that she had no idea what he was talking about. His chest tightened painfully, and he used that feeling, dragged it all the way up into his throat, down to the tips of his empty, itching fingertips. His jaw was tight, and his gaze unyielding, “You looked right _through_ me.”

Her whole frame was tense and trembling with the need to understand, but the shock was preventing her from seeing it through. Jack didn't trust himself to say anymore, but eventually he didn't need to—he knew the precise moment that understanding flitted through her eyes.

Jack didn't care to dwell on the details of what happened next—the way her eyes widened; the open, gaping hole of her mouth, twisted with unbearable realization; the way her bare hand reached to cover it, the way she might have when she was younger, _the way she used to cover her laughter_ —nor the sound of her gasp, broken and horrified, or the way that it'd be scraped along the inside of his brain, forever.

 _Oh, god,_ he heard, a rasping, shattered thing, echoing sickeningly through his ears. _Oh god, oh god—oh god—Jack—I'm—_

His own pain kept him frozen, and by the time he realized Elsa _was_ reaching for his face—that this was _real—_ she'd already started to pull away, terrified that she'd irreparably broken his trust in her, that she'd overstepped his boundaries, _whatever they were_ , and she was already slipping back into her space, respecting his.

Jack jerked his jaw into her palm, and a sound escaped him, fragile and gritted, as her thumb swiped over his cheek. His eyes shuttered closed when she cradled his face in her hands, and her voice was just sounds in his head, words and apologies and honesty and pain, just like he knew— _just like he’d feared—_ it would be. _I'm so sorry_ , he heard, and her voice was choking with the effort it took not to cry, and his ears were ringing with it, his eyes burning. _I wasn't thinking,_ she plead. _I was trying not to lose my nerve and—I didn't_ think. _Oh god. Oh god, I'm so sorry. Jack, please forgive me. I'm so sorry. I'm so—_

His arms wrapped around her so tightly that she was lifted off the floor, his face crashed into the space between shoulder and neck, and as she threw her arms around his neck and _clung_ , a wretched sob broke free from her throat. Her narrow wrists cut sharply into the skin at the back of his neck, and she buried her face in the mess of his hood, and he wouldn't ever—not _ever—_ let go.

 _I Believe in you,_ he heard, over and over and over again. Broken and true, muffled by the fabric of his hood—noises in his mind, warmth in his arms, something as real and steady as a heartbeat. _You're my Guardian,_ Elsa's voice whispered. _You're my best friend. I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry. Please—believe me._

In the end, all that mattered was what he'd already known, anyway.

 _Please believe me_.

And, of course, he did.

. * * * .

Eventually, Jack remembered.

One moment, he was merely resting his itching eyes, reminding himself of what it felt like to hold— _to be held—_ and the next, his inhaling breath brought with it more than relief to his lungs; the smell of winter, fresh and pure, seeped into his senses. He remembered the warmth in his arms, the way he cherished it— _firm hold, gentle hands—_ and the irresistibletreasure of the simple notion, _you could keep her there_.

The thoughts came flooding in after that, each more tempting and unrealistic than the next, until Jack was aware of every inch of her in a way that he hadn't been moments before. She was _Elsa_ , and that had always meant so much, and now Jack was being reminded of his newest appreciations for her in a very real way.

Subtly, Jack inched his fingers just a bit closer to her spine, spreading his palms wide over the expanse of her back. She was so small. Even for someone like him— _who'd probably never know just how tall he might have really been_. Her words had stopped some time ago, and now Elsa merely breathed, resting and clinging to him with all she had, her cheek on his shoulder, her breath against his neck. Jack's eyes closed suddenly, and his fingers pressed more deeply into her back, breathing in the scent of her, the warmth and the affection and the trust and—

His hands were gentle as he set her feet softly to the floor, as he slowly lifted his chin and untangled his limbs from hers. His eyes felt itchy and his limbs felt heavy, and Elsa looked to be on the verge of collapse. She looked sleepy but content, and she was smiling at him, and it was the combination of all these things that prompted Jack to raise his fingers to her freshly-cut bangs, and ruffle them in a distinctly, long-ago, achingly familiar way.

Elsa's surprise shot through him with more force than he'd expected— _jarring, even, in her quiet, blinking stillness_ —and with all due gravity, Jack pasted on his most reassuring grin with expert care. There was something deeply rooted in the gesture, a necessary reminder that Jack clawed onto with every fiber of his being. _You are her Guardian_ , he remembered. _You've known her since she was six-years-old, since she was thirteen, since she was sixteen. Since the first moment you did this,_ his fingers through her bangs _, to let her know that everything was going to be all right.  
_

_You're going to live forever._

Was it any surprise that he left shortly thereafter? It was with a genuine smile that he dismissed himself for patrols and duties, even if it was half-hollow. ( _Her dismay is understandable_ , he told himself, thinking back on the day's harrowing, cathartic events. So many wounds, old and new. They were already healing, but it was right, wasn't it, for the two of them to still feel unsure?

 _It'll just take time for us to find our rhythm again_.)

Her obvious disappointment was because he was saying goodbye, he thought; nothing more.

 . * * * .

 


	149. - the dreamcatcher -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/28/14_. Happy Black Friday? Here's another quick yet important update. ;)

 

. * * * .  
  


_\- the dreamcatcher -_

  
. * * * .  
  


The dreamcatcher had gone into a vault, deep and dark where it belonged, where it couldn't be seen.

It was alone and guarded, a universe away from Memory Boxes so precious, but worry gnawed away at Jack's insides, and when his silence and his brooding looks did not stop, Toothiana relented; he checked them—just to be sure.

_(Jack had not forgotten Pitch Black’s latest message...  
And who he’d neglected to include.)_

Jack told himself he wasn't going to think about it: Pitch had gotten into his head before. He _wouldn't_ let it happen again.

But none of the others had mentioned anything amiss... so, _was_ it all in his head? Were the others just too distraught to notice? Had Pitch purposefully left a sign for Jack?

Of course he had.

But why? Jack was already a Guardian when he'd fought against Pitch, if not in title then certainly in spirit, and though he'd not yet formally taken his oath, Pitch had known his role all along. Was this a slight, then? A petty jab at old insecurities? ( _Old Fears?_ ) Forgotten and ignored, insignificant and—

— _invisible?_

Well, too bad. Jack had a family now. (Jack had a veritable _army—_ fairies and yetis and elves and friends.) He wasn't the same little winter sprite that Pitch had lured away two decades before, and he wouldn't fall for the same tricks, no matter how exclusively packaged or ominously delivered. He was a Guardian.

No matter what Pitch would have liked to Believe.

. * * * .

 

 


	150. - in Berk -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/29/14_. You can totally tell that I'm on vacation. :P Guess who's excited for Jelsa Week 2014! I'll hopefully be submitting two pieces. ;)

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- in Berk -_  
  
. * * * .

It was Christmas time in Berk.  
  
Which was really confusing? Bunny tried to explain to Jack all the differences between time and space across the planes ( _“So wait—it's still November here, but December over there? Wait—_ how _many years has it been for Hiccup??”_ ) but it was all easier said than done. Sort of. Bunny still found it pretty taxing to say.  
  
Roughly two years had passed since Hiccup had battled the Dragon Queen, which _might_ have matched up with the timeline Jack was operating under... and it might not have.  
  
“Time works differently across all the worlds, mate,” Bunny gestured up towards the globe; the one in North's workshop was definitely the biggest out of all of them, and Jack vaguely wondered what that said about Santa Claus. “Sometimes the passing of time matches up, and sometimes it doesn't. It's all up to the cosmos.”  
  
Jack quirked a skeptical frown, though he had no right to be cynical. He was a walking, mostly-breathing example of the whims of the _cosmos_. Jack cocked a curious brow to Bunny. “Magic?”  
  
“Somethin' more than that,” Bunny answered, and Jack smirked at the reverence that was slowly working its way into his voice; Pookas— _think they know everything_. “It's the same essence that keeps us from aging,” he said, piquing Jack's interest. “The immortality isn't so much the magic as it is that we simply function on a different plane of existence.”  
  
Something about that had Jack's stomach caving in on itself. “ _Simply_ ,” he scoffed, trying to flip his stomach sideways. “Right.”  
  
“Don't be smart.”  
  
Jack Frost frowned. “Believe me,” he muttered. “I'm definitely not feelin' that way.”  
  
Bunny took him for a spin, which was a nice enough distraction from the whirlwind of shit that was otherwise surrounding their daily lives. Christmas was little more than a month away (in _this_ world), and Jack suddenly understood why North was up to his ears in pent-up energy. (And so were the elves, for that matter; Jack made sure to fritz up the coffee machine before he left, and _no_ , it wasn't a prank—it was out of the goodness of his heart. Or the health of theirs. Either or.)  
  
Berk was fresh with a winter that screamed through Jack's whole being, fleshing out his laughter in a way that made him feel just as human as he felt _in_ human, and for the first time in a very long time, for a moment Jack couldn't seem to mind the difference.  
  
So much had already changed. Hiccup was in the midst of creating a series of maps unlike anything Jack had ever seen before. He was _adored_ by the village. Bunny got the funniest expression on his face when Jack pointed it out—and by _funny,_ Jack didn't actually mean funny at all. Stoick the Vast was even starting to drop a few hints every now and then about chiefdom; Berk's first Dragon Rider always seemed suspiciously busy, afterwards. Undoubtedly, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third was a far cry from the scrawny kid Jack first met however many years ago.

( _Toothless may have recognized him, even despite their cloaking of invisibility from the mortals;_  
 _Hiccup may have been very confused by Toothless' strange urge to fly after nothing, out of nowhere;_  
 _Jack Frost may have waved, and he may or may not have winked._ )

  
Unbelievably, Hiro Hamada was on the cusp of graduation— _at thirteen_. Elsa's intelligence had always impressed Jack, but Hiro's understandings and interests were from a world completely _beyond_ his. (San Fransokyo? What era was this?) Jack still recognized, however, the dull look on Hiro's face as he sat through teachers' lectures...  
  
It was the same look of boredom he'd seen on Elsa's, before she'd taken her education into her own hands.

(Elsa had turned to books, to literature and theory and philosophy; Hiro didn't seem as interested in those options.)

The passage from downtown San Fransokyo to The Highlands was confusing as hell; Jack had to poke at least three trees with his staff before he could be sure that all the greenery was real, and Bunny hissed and swatted when an unnatural frost broke out in the midst of Scottish summer. Bunny took careful notes to later pass onto Sandy ( _“He still visits sometimes, but he has far less time than you and I.”_ ) and Jack dutifully tried to do the same, in case he noticed something that Bunny had missed. Merida was trying her hand at ruling a kingdom ( _grooming_ , her mother called it) but her refusal for an arranged marriage was decidedly steadfast—and uncontested. She and her mother had never been closer, or happier, and the castle often served berry cakes. Merida thought this was hilarious; so did Jack.  
  
Corona was in the midst of preparing its kingdom for a brief absence of the royal family, and Rapunzel was positively delighted to be returning to the Southern Isles so soon. ( _The Yule Ball,_ Jack remembered; he'd forgotten, completely.) Eugene had just returned from a trip to the east, where he'd successfully assisted in the beginnings of the construction of a new chain of schools for children— _I remember that letter_ , though Jack, thinking of the envelope on Elsa's desk—and Rapunzel was eager to share her developed plans for a grand archive of medical texts, as well as how best to mass-distribute copies across the lands. Her other idea, of a _hospital,_ was revolutionary.

The journey took two days, but Bunnymund and Jack arrived back at North's workshop within mere hours on his grand old clock; long before the elves had even noticed the broken coffee maker in the first place.  
  
“But— _how_...?”  
  
Jack trailed off, but Bunny offered no explanation. In the end, Jack really didn't need one.  
  
The worlds were changing all at once— _different places and different paces_ —and yet Jack and Bunny had flitted from one to the next, changing and unchanging, growing yet never aging, always learning— _without_ the measure of wisdom lines upon their faces; Jack could travel the worlds a hundred times over and still end up almost back where he'd started, without anyone ever being the wiser. He could learn so much. It was a responsibility, and a challenge, it was a privilege and a gift. He had _so much_ _time_ , and so much opportunity—so much that he hardly knew what to do with it. People would _die_ for a mere taste of what he had, to have so much time it was endless.  
  
His heart hurt.

. * * * .

 


	151. - singing thing -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/12/14_. All right, so there are two prompts in here that aren’t actually one sentence, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet the restrictions. You’ll see why. You’ll forgive. I hope. 
> 
> Also: ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fP8foIynvs))

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _singing thing_ -  
  
. * * * .

 **#31 – Smirk  
** “What, you think you're the only one who's apparently got this singing thing going? _Apparently_ —I mean. Not that I would _know_. Firsthand. From experience. (Just sayin'.) But seriously: trust me, Elsa, if anybody's singing sounds like a dying animal, it ain't mine, and... as much as I fucking _hate_ to admit it—it ain't Bunny's either.”

 **#32 – Sorrow  
** ( _Sometimes his Memories were still disjointed—mosaic pieces that needed to be put back together; there were cracks and seams, but they were_ there—and _that, Jack thought, was all that mattered._ )

 **#33 – Stupidity  
** _Mindfulness_ , they called it—over and over again; sometimes it was the only thing that kept them from going insane ( _you can't get dragged down by the past, or sucked in by the future; you need to prepare, and celebrate, and enjoy—otherwise there's no point_ ); that was all fine and dandy and everything, but— _in case they'd all forgotten_ —there was a madman Nightmare on the loose, and— _just in case anybody was wonderin'_ —the only thing Jack was being _mindful_ about was that he wasn't about to put up with any of his _shit_.

 **#34 – Serenade  
** “Jack, I said _no—_ what— _no_! Jack, _stop._ Jack. Stop singing. _Stop singing this instant!_ Oh, god. This is too much. This is—stop following me! _Jack—!_ I _swear_ on the grave of Elsana of Old that if you come _one step closer—_ ”

 **#35 – Sarcasm  
** It was wildly unfair, in his opinion, that Elsa was fluent in at least four or five different languages, when all Jack had in his repertoire was _slang, snark,_ and _sarcasm_ (especially since Elsa was already well-versed in all three).  
 **  
****#36 – Sordid**  
(And, you know—even an ice spirit could only take so many cold dips into the ice caps before shit got suspicious.)

 **#37 – Soliloquy  
** “FOR THE LAST TIME— _WHO—_ HAS TAKEN _—_ MY _—KRUZHKA!?”_

 **#38 – Sojourn  
** All right: so maybe Jack _was_ responsible this time— _but it wasn't his fault!_ —and even if it were, Bunny really couldn't kick him out of the Warren _now_ when _Bunny, please, no, no, no, man, c'mon—I'll be on shoveling duty for a month—I swear I’ll put it back, okay, just do a guy a solid, yeah?_

 **#39 – Share  
** “Jack... where did the other lemon cake go?”

 **#40 – Solitary**  
And Jack should have listened, should have known: _always_ , before the storm—there is calm.

. * * * .

 


	152. - days until -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/12/14_.

 

. * * * .

_\- days until -_

. * * * .

 **Days Until the New Moon:** 7  
  


Elsa hadn't been telling him about Henrik at all lately, and Jack was strangely grateful.

He had a feeling she was doing it on purpose, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. He could tell, in the thinnest sense of self-awareness, that he was still feeling the lingering effects of paranoia. ( _Is she avoiding you? Does she still trust you? Why won't she tell you what's in those letters?_ ) That day in the hallway had instilled all sorts of fears in him, new and old and rawer and realer than ever before. ( _She_ is _getting sick of you. She_ is _going to get rid of you—and soon_. _She doesn't want you around anymore._ ) It was irrational. It was the worse kind of foolishness, but he couldn't help it. It had dredged up a whole new, forgotten world of insecurities.

But in the end, Jack knew that his worrying was just that—worrying.

And his own petty preoccupations were the least of his concerns.

. * * * .

 **Days Until the New Moon:** 6

  
Toothiana managed to successfully transport all of the necessary teeth to their new, safer holding cells with plenty of time to spare before the New Moon, which meant that things should have been fine.

 _Should_ have been.

And it might've, had Pitch not struck down his newest victims six days early, six days before expected, six days _too soon_.

( _Three steps forward,  
twenty steps back_.)

He was playing with them, cat and mouse. Lulling them into contentment ( _into routine_ ), even while they ran themselves ragged, and _then_.

A resurgence. Lost teeth ( _two-hundred and ninety-seven_ ), and broken Memories, and tiny Hopeless children everywhere. Toothiana didn't cry so much as she raged, but even then, there was only so much that could be done.

He was always two steps ahead of them.

Christmas was exactly one month away.

. * * * .

 **Days Until the New Moon:** 5  
  


Jack imagined Rapunzel:

Long, gold hair; chained and shackled and crying; being dragged down into the gaping hole of darkness—and there was that _voice_ again ( _the same voice that always called out, always sprung up from the darkness, filling up the spaces between his spine, the yet-_ so _-familiar and the not_.)

 _(Move_ , it whispered.

_Go!_

_Before it's too—)_

No matter how many snowballs ( _how many countries, blizzards, Guardian chores_ ), he couldn't get the pictures out of his head.

His imagination was getting stronger, and it was only getting worse.

. * * * .

The night of the Quarter Moon, Jack revealed his concerns to Bunny. Jack almost _knew_ he shouldn't ask— _what would it help?_ —but he did it, anyway.

Bunny told him more about that afternoon in the tower: the blood and the chains and the blade. ( _The magic._ ) How very fitting, indeed, that Gothel's own mirror was the weapon of her demise ( _though, in truth, Eugene had only ever intended Rapunzel's freedom_ ). Jack asked him what he thought might happen if Elsa were ever caught.

He wasn't expecting Bunny's hesitation.

( _“Elsa is powerful...  
We just don't know _how _powerful.”_

“ _Then she... she'll be able to protect herself?_  
We'll start training, maybe. No. Yes?  
I don't know.”

“ _I don't know either, mate.”_

“ _But... and we'll be there, too. We'll be ready. We won't—”_

“ _All we can do is only that:_  
what we can.”)  
  


At the end of it all, Bunny was Bunny, and Jack could count on his honesty; Tooth wasn't the kind to sugar-coat things, but Bunny could be honest in a way that scrubbed all sweetness clean off. Just truth. Plain and simple, and neither harsh nor kind, because it was what it was. ( _What it will be_.) Gothel came with _words_ and loving lies and cruel manipulation; maybe someone would come for Elsa with the same tricks, or a different arsenal— _maybe knives_ , Bunnymund mused aloud. Poison. ( _Fire_ , Jack breathed, to himself, deep and rasping.) Arrows.

Swords.

Jack imagined Rapunzel— _long, gold hair; chained and shackled and crying_ —being dragged down into a gaping hole of darkness, to a staircase that would lead her to the next cage, to a new prison. The hair lightened, shortened, knotted itself into an elegant braided twist, and all he could hear then, ringing in his head, _Is it really so hard—_

— _to imagine her in her place?_

. * * * .


	153. - just Fun -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/12/14_.

 

. * * * .

_\- just Fun -_

. * * * .

 **Days Until the New Moon:** 5  
  


Maybe it was because Jack was selfish.  
  
Somewhere around two in the afternoon, Jack decided that he didn't want Elsa to have to go to sleep that night.

Maybe it was because the New Moon was still five days away and the world always seemed to be falling apart and Jack didn't want to wait any longer; didn't want to have to _wait_ to spend the whole night running around the globes, worrying his ass off over what Pitch was up to this time, only to come back too late to Elsa on a magical sugar high. He didn't _want_ his time with her to be dictated by some evil maniac with _deeply_ -rooted credibility issues, who still hadn't bothered (dared, _schemed_ ) to show his face; he didn't _want_ to feel like she was only _this_ excited to see him because of some Pooka-made sugar-drug.

He wanted to be able to spend time with her _when_ he wanted to, _because_ he wanted to—like they used to.

Just because.

. * * * .

Besides.

_If I'm gonna have to split my time with a new assignment within the next few years..._

He still didn't know how he was gonna tell her that.

Tooth's advice had helped a little (“ _It's better to cross that bridge when you come to it.”_ ) but,  
then again, Jack had always been better at crossing a burning bridge  
instead of just sitting around and waiting for it to catch fire.

  
. * * * .

“Hey,” he said simply, like it was the most casual thing the world. Like he'd only been struck with the idea mere seconds ago, instead of agonizing over it for hours. “Wanna stay up and watch the sunrise?”

( _Pretend not to be tired at all and fall asleep only after dawn. Steal lemon cakes from the kitchens. Studiously avoid any mention of Anna, or cages, or dangers, or breath-catching hugs. Just Fun._ )

He didn't tell her why, but Elsa wasn't stupid.

In the midst of everything, Jack wasn't sure what surprised him more: how easily she said yes, or how much it hurt.

. * * * .


	154. - somebody else's -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/12/14_. 
> 
> **TW:** mention(s) of panic attacks.

 

. * * * .

_\- somebody else's -_

. * * * .

Three days before the New Moon, Elsa received a letter from Henrik.

Jack had no idea what it was about, but he arrived when she was already three pages deep into her response, so he was dutifully silent on the matter (even half an hour later, when the extent of their interactions had revolved around a series of one-sided apologetic glances). Elsa was enthralled in the midst of some line of thought, and she wouldn't be deterred.

Fine.

When she placed the finishing touches on her missive— _fine-handed signature, navy blue wax to set the seal_ —and finally turned to ask Jack how he was faring, what had started as a _I'm fine, how are you?_ had invariably turned into _I received another assignment_.

He didn't know _why_ he'd said it—not to _hurt_ her, because he'd expected her to understand; to throw her off _guard_ , maybe, because he was so sick of her putting it up, even if she didn't realize it.

So he was shocked at the stricken look on her face—for the split-second until she'd hidden it, smooth and serene and blank.

“Oh,” she'd said, like he'd told her that later it might rain. “Soon?”

 _Soon_.

And, in a sudden moment of unexpected clarity, it occurred to him that although Elsa may have been having an easier time of _deciding_ what was right—

She may not have actually be finding it very easy at all.

That was— _no surprise._

(He'd always known this.  
Of fucking _course_ he did.)

It was at the very center of Elsa's character— _the self-sacrifice, the selflessness_ —and he'd seen it countless times over the years— _with Anna, with her parents, with her kingdom, and her powers, and her own desires—_ and on a few occasions, perhaps, her time with him. (He still remembered, fully, those two weeks he'd spent away from Arendelle at her behest; wreaking havoc on water parks and playing pranks on unsuspecting Guardians, counting down the minutes all the while.) But. He'd never quite seen it this way before. (Where Elsa's sacrifice might concern _him_.)

A new angle revealed itself to him, in which Jack allowed himself to recognize the distinct possibility that, for all her talk of duty and justice and the greater good, perhaps Elsa hated the idea of Jack being somebody _else's_ Guardian just as much as he did.

The thought put a twist in his stomach.

“I... guess I should have known that it was bound to happen,” Jack explained, wondering at what game he was trying to play. “I just... didn't expect it to happen so quickly.”

“Quickly?” Elsa mused. Her expression was peculiar. Without actually feeling it, Jack laughed.

“Guess that's the centuries talking,” he murmured, scratching carelessly at his temple. “Eleven or twelve years isn't exactly quick, is it? Like you said.”

Elsa was decidedly quiet. His stomach was in knots.

“Hey, uh... tell me something,” he said quietly, drawn closer by a sense of dangerous curiosity. He didn't exactly _want_ to know, and he wasn't sure what'd prompted it, but it was in his mind now, swirling with with terrible need.

“Yes?” Elsa whispered, with widening eyes.

He loosened the knots from his tongue, carefully disentangling his focus from the freckles on her cheeks, and asked her how many panic attacks she'd had since the ball.

Elsa was undoubtedly surprised. He didn't miss the disappointment that flashed through her eyes, although he didn’t quite know what to make of it. (Wondered what she could have been expecting him to ask, instead.) The number she gave him was indefinite, and not at all what he wanted to hear.

“Have I been around for all of them?” he whispered, stunned.

She told him that they mostly happened, truthfully, when he was not around—just a few, every now and then. Her voice was so nonchalant, so accepting and unconcerned, it made Jack's skin _crawl._

“Nightmares?” he whispered, guilt gripping at his chest, but she dismissed the idea immediately.

“I'll just... be going about my regular evening,” she told him, “and something will trigger the feeling. A memory, mostly. But with it comes the anxiety, the—the _feeling._ Though. _.._ ” she hesitated, considering the matter herself, as if she feared he might find it strange, what she was about to say. “Now that you mention it... I _have_ noticed...”

“What?”

“I… I've noticed that almost all of them come at night.”

Jack thought he might throw up.

. * * * .


	155. - not forgotten -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/12/14_. Last one for the day!

 

. * * * .

_\- not forgotten -_

. * * * .

 **Days Until the New Moon:** 2  
 **Days Until Christmas:** 27  
 **Days Since the Hallway Incident:** 10  
 **Lost Teeth:** 297  
  


“We don't have bloody _time_ for this.”

He looked over to where Bunny was stepping out of his rabbit-hole, groaning and glaring and exhausted as hell; Jack hadn't really been all that pleased about an impromptu-meeting either, but at least _he_ showed up on-time.

Bunny sent him a mild glare—Jack sent one right back—and then he dragged his large feet over to stand beside Sandy, who looked particularly troubled. North was at the head, stroking his beard like some kind of wizard, and Jack _must_ have been tired, because he wasn't even sure he knew what a wizard was, let alone if they actually stroked their beards. (He'd have to ask Bunny when he was in a better mood.) The air was already thick enough as it was, and it didn't help that the workshop was suspiciously quiet for being so close to Christmas, but Jack figured that the elves and yetis needed a break _sometimes,_ even during an all-important Guardian meeting. He was just about to ask—to make sure the elves were being fed; sometime, by _someone—_ when Bunny wiped a paw down his face and muttered, “What do you want, old man?”

North's smile was grim. Intoned, “It's not I who put forth the summons.”

Bunny's eyes widened in surprise, and Sandy twiddled his thumbs anxiously, and Jack let the swirling sensation ride out in his stomach—just for a moment—before he gritted his courage, slapped on his most casual attempt of sly, and called, “If you're telling me that we came all this way because a couple 'a _elves_ started playing with some nightlights—”

“It was me.”

Jack's head swiveled, swift and stiff, to find Toothiana at the top of the hull, hovering just inside the doorway to North's office.

She was very, very pale.

“T-Tooth,” he whispered, fixated on the gaunt set of her cheekbones.

“For fuck's sake,” Bunny managed, and Jack could feel him drawing nearer, coming to stand beside him. “You... you split.”

Understanding cracked and pieced itself together in Jack's mind, but he never once took his eyes off of Toothiana's face. She looked so worn. So _tired_. So—

— _old?_

Jack's heartbeat quickened.

“I'll be fine,” Tooth declared with solemn determination, and Jack forced the Hope and the Fear back down into his heart. ( _She created more fairies,_ he told himself, _reminded_ himself. _She split herself apart. This isn't—that other thing. This isn't—_ aging.)

_And yet—_

Jack wasn't so sure.

“What happened?” Jack demanded, blood boiling, and he really, really wished he hadn't asked.

. * * * .

“He's testing us.”

Jack stared down at North's desk, at the melted, ruined, massive padlock that rested upon it. Jack had recognized that lock, immediately.

It looked exactly like the one at the Vault.

“ _Shite_ ,” Bunny hissed, “Is this—is _this_ —?”

“It's not,” Toothiana promised, immediately, though Jack's ears were roaring far too loudly for him to be exactly sure of what it was or wasn't. “This is from a Vault that we no longer actively use.”

 _So Pitch is acting on outdated information?_ asked Sandy, thoughtful and grim, itching his jaw with long, calculated strokes. Toothiana's grimace sharpened her cheeks all the worse.

“Not precisely,” she confessed.

Jack's eyes burned, but he couldn't pick anywhere to look. The ruined lock on the desk. Bunny's furious face. North's cold eyes and crossed arms. Sandy's pensive, forceful stare. Tooth.

Pale. Sickly. Sharp and skinny and frail and vulnerable and—

“This is from the Old Vault,” North explained, in low tones. His strength was there, but muted. “Pitch knows that we no longer store anything of value inside.”

Jack's brow furrowed. “Then why the hell would he go through the trouble of—?”

“Because,” North answered, eyes grim. “It is where we once kept our Memories.”

Jack's mouth was very dry, but his heart was very loud, and his tongue was rough as sandpaper when he licked his lips and tried, “So... what—what does it mean?”

“It could mean many things,” North sighed. “It is a warning, but it is... it is also...”

“What?”

“It is... personal.”

Jack hesitated, and Bunny scoffed. There were millennia-old dynamics here he didn't understand and— _truth be told_ —he wasn't sure he wanted to.

“It is as if to say, _I have not forgotten_ ,” North began, caught somewhere in memory and misery and something that had no doubt existed eons before Jack was even born. “The slights he feels we have made against him. The injustices he thinks he has faced.”

“He... _thinks_ he's faced?”

North's eyes held a very peculiar gleam. “A single perspective can be very blind,” he warned.

Jack frowned. He opened his mouth to—

“It also a message of intention,” Tooth whispered. “It is not meant to be a surprise... for we have already known for quite some time what his endgame will be.”

“The bloody demon _wants_ us to know,” Bunny muttered darkly. “He's been after our Memories from the very beginning.”

Jack swallowed, suddenly sick.

“It's because of me,” he whispered, eyes narrowing, certain as anything.

The other Guardians started, but Toothiana looked downright appalled. “Jack, _no,_ that's not _—_!”

“No, listen,” he interrupted, and his _voice_ —his voice was strangely calm, when his insides were all twisted. “It's because of what happened in his Lair... he saw what I was willing to give up for my Memories. It's what—it's what gave him the idea.”

“Jack,” Bunny butt in, fierce and determined, “that was bloody _different_ , mate.”

“Doesn't matter,” Jack answered absently, mind turning quick with tumultuous thoughts. “You just said it, yourself... It's what he wants. And it started almost twenty years ago... with me.”

“Jack, you shouldn't _blame_ yourself for—”

“I ain't blamin' anybody,” Jack spat out, turning clear eyes on Tooth and her concern, and his glare was meant to be just as much of a comfort as it was a warning. “'Cept for Pitch, and that doesn't solve our problem.”

 _What is the level of our concern?_ asked Sandy, wrenching Jack's attention away from Tooth's face. _Is this an immediate threat?_

“No,” Toothiana sighed, and with it came the sagging weight of her shoulders. ( _And was that—? What_ was _that, beneath the empty patches of missing feathers?_ _That color—her skin. It almost—it almost looked—_

— _human?_ )

“—not just yet. He'll only want to prolong the suffering,” Toothiana was saying. “He won't dare go for our Memories until the very end, because he'll want to _make_ us remember, to feel—”

“Bloody sadistic _freak_.”

“But he _is_ testing us,” Toothiana whispered. “He doesn't know where the Vault is—”

Panic seized Jack by the throat. “He _can't—_ ”

“He _won't_ ,” Toothiana hissed, eyes narrowing, “But this _is_ a warning. You have to understand: in this age, our newer Vaults have so much more protection, and the magic on this lock was very weak in comparison—a kind of archaic energy that has nearly passed out of existence.”  
  
“So what’s wrong?”  
  
Toothiana hesitated.  
  
“The problem is that… hewas still able to demolish it... impressively.”

Jack forced himself not to stare at its mangled remains. He wouldn't allow Pitch the gratification, wherever the _fuck_ he was.

“So what are you saying?” Jack demanded, stomach clenching.

There was a beat of silence, in which Jack was pretty damn sure no one knew what the hell there even _was_ to say, but then Bunny sighed, and rubbed a paw over his eyes—and it was only because it was _Bunny_ who said it, that Jack didn't flip the fuck out, only because Jack knew, _Jack knew_ that Bunny was suffering just like he was, going through the same fucking thing—and it was a _testament_ to Jack's love for Bunny, that he didn't stalk right over and punch him in the goddamn face, when Bunny laughed darkly beneath his breath, old and tired and worn, and blackly joked, “She's saying you better make sure Elsa's putting her journal to good use, mate.”

. * * * .


	156. - sugar high -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/27/14_. Happy Holidays, y'all. Hope everyone had a great end of the semester/holiday celebration/start of the vacation or whatever it is that you're up to. I haven't had very much time to write, but I'm on break from school for two marvelous weeks and I'm hoping to put more of a dent in the plans for my WIPs. :) Here's two chapters for the morning! ;)

 

. * * * .

_\- sugar high -  
_

. * * * .

 **Days Until the New Moon:** 1

 

Elsa was, in fact, writing in her journal. Dutiful entries filled with words and thoughts and stories and questions.

Or so Jack assumed.

He didn't actually know what went into her journal, no matter how often he wondered, or how deeply. (Was she writing every day? How much? What did she write about? Was _he_ in there?) Questions that had often passed by on fleeting thoughts suddenly carried a great deal more weight.

( _Did someone's innermost thoughts_  
 _count as secrets_  
 _if nobody ever bothered to ask?_ )  


Jack hadn't told the other Guardians that he was getting Elsa a new journal for Christmas; partly because he was actually sort of nervous about it (about whether or not she might like it, that is) and Jack could do without the inevitable ribbing, and partly, also, because—

He wasn't sure if it was against the rules.

( _Was_ there some mystical law against Guardians bestowing gifts upon their assignments? It _had_ to be a show of favoritism, no matter which way anybody looked at it, and he knew how that kind of imbalance was usually received.

And reasonably so, although Jack wasn't always in the mood to be reasonable.)

And yeah, okay, sure—North had given her Christmas gifts (but he was motherfucking _Santa Claus,_ for chrissake, he didn't count), and Bunny gave Elsa stuff all the time, but those things were mostly related to safety or other Guardian-stuff, like the sugar cubes, and actually, now that Jack thought about it, everything else Bunnymund had actually ever given Elsa were just temporary loans. Mostly books and maps.

Toothiana had given her feathers for her dreamcatcher, once. Sandy had influenced her dreams. (For a while, anyway— _shit_ —but. Anyway. That era was long gone.) _Anyway._ The point was that during the years when Elsa had still been considered young enough, Sandy had gifted her with peaceful Dreams... even the Sandman's gifts could be accounted to duty. All Jack had ever given Elsa were stolen snacks, or a hard time.

This was different.

Of course, he... _could_ argue that this was a Guardian matter. (And it was. It _was_.) Now, more than ever, this journal was a tool for them. (For _both_ of them—all of them.) Elsa's memory was sharp, but a journal was a safe house, a powerful weapon against anxiety, or self-doubt. Mere pages of ink were nothing compared to the magic of teeth, but a journal was a vessel, all the same; a place for her to share her most private thoughts, and feelings; to harbor happy memories and let go of painful ones, to gain perspective and light and insight; to detail the occurrences of a life that no one else knew; to _Believe_.

Nobody would fault him for giving her another place to store her Memories, especially in the wake of such darkness.

But that wasn't the only reason he was giving it to her.

. * * * .

The New Moon was the following evening, which meant that Elsa should probably be getting to bed.

Pitch would be wreaking havoc soon enough, after all.

It was foolish to assume that Pitch might adhere to any sort of schedule, especially after the incident that occurred only a few days before— _Pitch, testing the waters, biding and curtailing his time_ —and it was just as easily conceived that, to a Nightmare, tonight could be no different than tomorrow night. Pitch was just as cruel now as he'd always been, as he always would be. Pitch would not concern himself with petty things like _routine,_ and so Jack shouldn't, either.

And yet.

“Hey,” Jack called from the windowsill, halting Elsa's flowing quill in its tracks. His smirk was genuine, finally, when she looked up from her desk. “Got any more of those sugar cubes?” Jack felt light and Elsa’s smile was playful, and overall, Jack congratulated himself on a job well done. It was a wonderful idea.  
  
Except.  
  
Except Jack and Elsa both knew what kind of effect sugar had on both of them (and forget coffee, _forget_ it)—especially he, who needed no sleep, and especially magical, Pooka-crystallized sugar with very specific, extreme purposes—and so the whole thing erupted in fits of undignified giggles and snowy shenanigans, and very concentrated, purposeful streams of _don’t think about_ ______________ , and generally enough tomfoolery to make this mysterious Tom-person proud, so essentially everything was going very fine and well until Jack’s left foot caught the post of Elsa’s bed and the resulting misstep sent them both tumbling to the floor.  
  
Elsa was laughing too hard to breathe—this sort of uproarious laughter was hardly becoming of a future Queen, in Jack’s opinion; he loved it—and Jack couldn’t seem to get up off of his back, kept clutching at his stomach, all high and dizzy with laughter, and it was great and easy and fun and all, until Elsa rolled smoothly onto her side and pressed up against him.  
  
Little quakes of laughter rustled against his sleeve, into the side of his arm and leg; his own laughter lost its trail, turning to short breaths of quiet, mouthing gasps, nerves and magic and attraction, and delirious thoughts of _aren’t they all the same thing?_

The haze made him think slower, made him think faster, made the worldview come in clear, crystal-sharp, and it must have been the sugar, then, that cut through all the fog and all the bullshit, and let Jack realize in no uncertain terms that Elsa’s breasts were smooshed against his arm.  
  
Smooshed.  
  
His skull rolled helplessly against the rug, heavy like a rock, and his stomach quaked and churned as white-hot want pooled deep in his center, as Elsa’s tiny trembles vibrated through his bones, as Elsa’s delicate chin nocked into his shoulder, as Elsa’s breathy laughter brushed the shell of his ear. One small hand found his wrist, chain and anchor, and Jack’s ears rang with white noise, endless echoes of easy laughter. She simmered beside him—shifting with light and happiness—as Jack’s defenses slowly unraveled on the floor, and when she noticed that his laughter had run out, she pulled at his wrist, yanked on his sleeve with breathy confidence, and whispered his name into his ear through a laugh.  
  
“What are you doing?” she demanded playfully, as Jack’s cock hardened against his leg. She was pulling at his sleeve again, pushing lightly at his shoulder, like trying to wake him from a daze. The movements did marvelous things for the weight and feel of her breasts against his side, and his gut grew hot with the notion of it, of the realness of her presence, of her heat seeping into him. “Stop thinking,” she ordered, with all true dignity of a Queen in the making, and a tell-tale twitch of his dick was the only response.  
  
Impatient and restless in ways that she only rarely allowed herself to be, Elsa pushed herself onto one forearm and leaned slightly over him, all the better to glare down at him questioningly, to present him with a clear view of her face—a rare pout, unguarded eyes—and to lift the curves of her chest over his, to hover just out of his heartbeat’s reach. The movement was quick, and slow, and brushed her breasts over his ribs.  
  
He wanted to feel them—against his hands, his chest, his mouth, his anywhere—under his touch and attention and his Elsa-starved eyes, to cup them and stroke them and suck at them with his mouth, with teeth and tongue and that, that was Jack’s cock raging hard against the strain of his pants, thick against the seam, and when Elsa shifted just the slightest bit closer to peer into his face—confused, surely, because who wouldn’t be?—Jack had the stupidest urge to lean up and kiss her, there on his back on the rug— _eyes closed, foreheads pressed in, fingers in hair and under dresses, bare shoulders over wooden partitions, soft hair, soft skin, warm hands, open mouths.  
  
_ Jack laughed when the sudden snowball caught Elsa’s right cheek, and he used the moment of distraction to slip out from underneath her. Pure, unadulterated, playful surprise stole her features, and Jack forced a louder laugh as he scrambled back, crossed his legs at the ankles and tucked his knees within his elbows, hiding as best he could.  
  
“A cheap trick,” she decided, wiping away the wet remains of snow from her cheek with a delicate finger. She was amused, but possibly a little annoyed, too. Jack decided not to read into that.  
  
The sugar high was lingering, but it was slower now, calmer and subdued. His hyperactivity became hyperawareness, a thrumming in his veins and a song in his blood, a shake to his fingers.  
  
( _Guardian_ , a voice whispered, and his chest went cold.)  
  
Bitter insides with mere ice-chill comforts, Jack smirked an apologetic grin that fell a thousand miles short and said, “Sorry, but I’m a little short on change.”  
  
Elsa didn’t think that was very funny, but she smiled at him, anyway.  
  
A little.

. * * * .

As soon as his dick went soft, he fled.  
  
He’d gotten so much better at the fleeing: jokes and smiles, quick explanations and friendly promises of return; Jack told Elsa ( _lied_ to Elsa about) where he was going and when he’d be back, and if the quips felt a little too predictable, if the banter felt a little too rehearsed, then Jack couldn’t be bothered enough to worry about it. He left Elsa with a reminder to enjoy the rest of her sugar, and that he’d be back soon, and _please, don’t sleep until the morning_. For all intents and purposes, all was well, if not a little broken, but Jack was gonna fix that. Things were gonna be fine.  
  
He’d ask Sandy to check in on her later that night, just in case.

( _And he’d be back that very night, watching, waiting, on the lookout for Nightmares._

 _Even if he didn’t have the balls to come inside_.)

Jack spent the remainder of the flight to Mt. Kilimanjaro thinking of snow, and ice, and Memories. He remembered the young girl he’d sworn to keep under his protection, the days and the years between them, the ages of friendship and love and trust. The fleeting possibility that, maybe, Elsa might sometimes think of _him_ that way, too.

He stayed in the mountains for much longer than he should have, as some sort of sick, self-inflicted punishment for his lonely, pathetic, thoughtless meanderings, and worked himself up until he’d dug himself a nice, brooding hole, deep enough to lay down and drown himself in self-loathing. He was a useless fool, and a shit Guardian, and he wasn’t going to sit around considering whether or not a young, powerful little girl could grow up to be attracted to her ageless, maybe-handsome, maybe-charming Guardian, and whether or not he should punch himself in the face. He wouldn’t consider it any longer. Wouldn’t even _humor_ it.  
  
Because the only thing that could be worse than a Guardian wanting his assignment would be for his assignment to actually want him _back_.

. * * * .

 


	157. - hurt, eventually -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/29/14_. This chapter is so long that my browser actually crashed the first time I tried to paste it into the text box. :P Enjoy.
> 
>  **Beta'd** by the lovely **ALISON** and **ABBY**.  <3 <3
> 
> Rina, do you remember when I told you I probably wasn't going to write Jelsa? ~~This is all your fault.~~ ilu.  <3

 

. * * * .  
  
 _\- hurt, eventually -  
_

. * * * .

 

**The New Moon**

 

Paranoia was the worst kind of demon.

He called himself vigilant, _prepared—_ but never paranoid; he was aware, and determined, and careful. It was reassurance. It was certainty and devotion and adrenaline; it was what made Jack return to the Vault, twice, in the hours spanning one visit to Elsa from the next; it was what made him think, and overthink, and sit and stare at the ocean with stern angles set upon his face, silent with unspoken storms; it was the last evil he thought he'd let into his veins, and the first feeling to try to claw its way to the surface at every shut of darkness, at every unexpected shadow.

(“ _There's no pattern anymore, Frost. It's all or nothing now. He either strikes, or he doesn't. No point in killin' ourselves over nothin' but Fear. Just be ready.”_ )

He was.

. * * * .

  
Physically reassuring himself that their Memories were safe in the Vault may or may not have been a waste of his time, but nobody faulted him for the trip. (Bunny had already made one journey to the Vault, himself. Sandy didn't, for reasons of his own, but Jack could tell that he probably would have liked to. North _wouldn't do Toothiana the dishonor_ , or something to that effect, who knows, the last half of what he said was in irritated Russian. Whatever. Jack knew that Tooth understood.

This wasn't about him questioning his faith in her capabilities; it was about his certainty in Pitch’s.)

He'd go again in the morning, if there was time. 

“You're awfully quiet tonight.”

Jack Frost felt his shoulders seize up, unavoidably and unmistakably caught. Hoping his extended brooding hadn't dampened the mood, Jack Frost sheepishly let out a tentative smile.

“Didn't want to disturb you,” he answered easily, then nodded vaguely to the feather of her quill and where it hovered over the letter she was writing to some foreign diplomat or other. It was a new quill, from her father. Very practical.

Very beautiful.

Elsa said nothing, and Jack pretended not to notice the pursing of her lips. Small flurries of peaceful snowflakes flitted out from his fingertips, dancing gently on a nonexistent breeze. Lightly, Jack smiled.

A quiet evening, then.

Maybe with a little bit of luck and a good hand from fate, they'd be in for an uneventful night ( _and morning, and afternoon_ ). It didn't hurt to hope.

“Jack, I'd like to do a bit of training, if that's all right.”

His chin tilted upwards, surprised. She'd been so entrenched in her reading all evening that Jack hadn't allowed himself the possibility of playing anything more than watchdog. “Yeah?”

Elsa nodded, resolute. “I only practiced magic for two hours this morning," she disclosed, voice nearly impish, "and I'm afraid I've been rather neglectful.”

Her eyes gleamed with the words, and warmth bubbled in his chest. Jack didn't bother to hide the wryness of his grin. Slowly, Jack untangled his long limbs from his seat on the sill, and limberedover to where Elsa was settling herself on the floor. There was an unopened box of sugar cubes resting in wait upon her vanity— _very purposefully untouched_ —and a single cup for her cooling pot of tea, the kettle fresh from the fire. (His cup, of course, was hidden for the meantime in one of the drawers, where it couldn't draw Olga’s suspicion. Where it couldn’t cause any more trouble.) A healthyfire was crackling in the hearth, but Jack wasn't bothered by the heat. He settled himself into a cross-legged position with good humor and blind optimism, genuinely looking forward to what magic lay ahead with naturalanticipation, and it was inevitable, absolutely inescapably inevitable, yet Jack would look back on this moment ages later and wonder how he hadn't seen it coming.

It was probably fate.

“Is a game of Slapjack all right?” she asked **.**

Naturally, Jack hesitated; he'd been very purposefully avoiding these games for a reason.  
  
And that reason hadn't exactly changed.

Yet Elsa was already holding up her hands in easy expectation: palms facing down, allowing _him_ to attempt a strike first—though that was more mercy than mere courtesy—and Jack suddenly wasn't really all that sure what the big deal was, anyway. It was just a game.

Decision made, Jack lifted his hands to slideunder hers. “Sure,” he heard himself saying, “I haven't been slapped around very much lately. I could use a whack or two on the wrist.”

Elsa's lips quirked ineffably, and Jack found his heart skipping within his chest. He worked very hard to keep his hands steady.

“Why Slapjack?” he spilled out, then started at his own unbidden curiosity. “If you don't mind me asking,” he tacked on, because it seemed like a strange thing to ask.

Elsa, however, gave his question the same show of consideration that she gave everything else. A lot of consideration, actually, going by this really long silence that he'd just inadvertently prompted. Jack became so focused on waiting for her answer that he forgot to attempt a strike.

“Well... I suppose it has to do with how my magic is connected to the rest of me. My powers are inexorably tied to both my emotions and my physical being, which becomes more obvious when I exert physical restraint,” she said, seemingly out of nowhere. She grinned deviously. “And it’s my favorite.”

It was enough to shock Jack into remembering that he was supposed to be playing a game, and that his hesitation had inevitably lost him his turn; Elsa's hands seamlessly slipped beneath his— _which began to shake, just the tiniest bit_ —anticipating the promise of an inevitable strike, of course. Jack's whole frame stiffened in an effort to keep the nerves in check, and Elsa continued on, as if she hadn't noticed.  
  
He had a feeling that she had.

“However, I'm... beginning to fear that this kind of training has grown stagnant,” she confessed, and Jack was wrenched from his speculations to wonder at the nature of her tone. ( _Thoughtful? Apologetic?_ ) “As my mastery progresses, this kind of training feels more and more like child's play.”

 _Strike_.

Jack hissed at the sharp sting of Elsa's palms on his hands, then dutifully returned to position. His shoulders were beginning to ache with strain, but he wouldn't say a word. Jack watched Elsa's open palms slide through the air, slipping directly beneath his, and when Elsa’s left pinky caught the inside of his wrist, Jack reminded himself to breathe.

“Child’s play?” he quipped— _relax, Frost; aim for light_ —and quirked an indignant brow that was just as playfully crooked as his voice was level. “Is there some sort of insult in there somewhere, your highness?”

And he thought himself very clever indeed, until Elsa smiled at him so knowingly, and quietly reminded him, “You're the one who never wants to play.”

Trapped without any proper way to respond, Jack remained safely silent. His gaze hinted at suspicion of double-entendres and foul play, but the sharpness became _awareness_ instead of distraction, and when Elsa struck again, Jack's hands slipped safelyaway. His turn.

Jack steeled himself with a deep breath, and loweredhis palms into place under hers. Elsa's hands had always been the slightest bit colder than anyone else's, but to him, almost everyone felt warm. Elsa's skin was soft where his fingers brushed it accidentally— _smooth and warm and sure and sweet_ —and _quick and thoughtless and sharp_ , Jack struck out on instinct.

Her soft gasp cut across the tip of his spine, and Jack's hands hastily latched onto her small, cold ones in stilted, apologetic realization; distant dismay pooled in his stomach and his ears burned red and Elsa stared down at his hands like she didn't know who they belonged to.

“Sorry,” he murmured, clenching his fingers awkwardly over hers. He really hadn't meant to do that. Hadn't even thought about it first. He intended to apologize again, until surprised, blue eyes shifted into begrudgingly amused ones. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have marked them as judiciously _pleased_.

“It's part of the game, Jack,” she reminded him, halfway to a laugh, somersaulting Jack’s stomach backwards. “Someone's bound to get hurt, eventually,” she teased.

They should stop. “Do you wanna stop?”

Elsa's eyes wizened with an incalculable edge.“If we do, then we'll never learn.”

Jack didn’t know what to say to that. Her face was very distracting. Her eyes and her mouth and her nose. Jack’s tongue was hot and swollen in his throat.

Then, like the lingering ache of a blow to the stomach, something clicked.

“I thought you said this training wasn't enough anymore,” he echoed, though it came out far more accusing— _wounded_ —than he'd intended.

“It's not,” she gently agreed. “But it doesn't mean I don't still enjoy it.” _Strike_. Ow. Fuck. "And that's not to say that it can't lead to other forms of training that are even more valuable.”

_Strike._

Jack shook out his aching hands. “What do you mean?”

Something flickered in her eyes. Something urgent, but subdued.

Controlled.

“Jack," she thoughtfully began, unreadable. Carefully—almost _too_ casually—she ventured, "What do you think the odds are that Prince Henrik might ever enjoy a game with me like this?”

Jack Frost stiffened suddenly. Grimly declared, “He'd better.”

Elsa's muted exasperation was an aching comfort—so much so that he considering playing out his stubbornness, just to keep that expression on her face—but she was not to be deterred. “Jack, please. One day, maybe. Perhaps. But what about now? As we begin to sort through a courtship that is _hardly_ ideal? Can you honestly picture it?”

Honestly, he'd rather slash his chest open.

“I don't understand where you're going with this,” Jack tersely replied.

“Jack... let me ask you this: can you possibly imagine a situation where a simple handshake could acceptably be the physical extent of a genuine connection between two people?”  
  
“Uh…” That was a lot of words. “I though lots of partnerships did that.”  
  
A beat of acknowledgement. “All right… Two _companions_ , then,” she clarified, eyes watchful.  
  
Jack frowned, perturbed. “I don’t know. Maybe? I mean I haven’t really thought about it.”  
  
“So consider my situation, then: pretend that I am about to travel to a nearby village that is suffering from a famine. Shall I not extend a hand to help a hungry child rise to their feet? Offer them a hug, for comfort?” she pressed, eyes clear. “Or what if someone should stumble—should I not reach out to steady them?”  
  
“All right,” Jack agreed begrudgingly. “I see what you mean.”  
  
“Or what about the lords and ladies at court?” Elsa went on, enjoying her game but yet _clearly_ not, especially when Jack _clearly_ wasn’t enjoying it either. “I can’t dance with them _all_. Should I challenge them to a match of Slapjack? A _thumb-war_?”  
  
“All _right,”_ Jack snapped, growing pointlessly irritated.“You’ve made your point.”  
  
“Jack, it’s not… these games have been valuable lessons for me. _All_ of them. They are tools that I will no doubt carry with me for the rest of my life, but... these are but stepping stones,” she played with his fingers, and he _really_ wished she wouldn’t do that, really hoped she wouldn’t stop. “I mean, childish hand games and silly tricks—”

“ _Whoah_. You got a problem with them?”

“Oh, Jack, _calm down_ , I've got nothing of the sort,” she sighed heatedly, pulling his hands back into her grasp. He stubbornly kept them limp in her hold, and he didn’t know why. “I just can't... _rely_ on using these familiar tactics to ensure utter control any longer. I mean, there is so much _more_ that we… As humans, we... The truth is that they no longer hold the same—the same _thrill_ for me, as they once did.”

Without meaning to be, Jack was outrageously offended.

Ignoring the _thrill_ still itching up his spine— _or his shaking fingers, or his racing heart or shortness of breath_ —Jack turned defensive, narrowed eyes on hers. Bitterness filled the spaces between his teeth.

“So you've outgrown them, then, is what you're saying.”

Blue eyes narrowed right back. “Don't you dare go putting words in my mouth,” Elsa warned, then leaned forward, as if to remind him of where it was. Jack leaned back, then matched his glare for hers; she held it for a moment, searching for something, but Jack wasn't about to give away _anything_ , and held firm even as the world spun around him.

“You know,” he bit out, when the damn silence had gone on long enough. He ran a stiff hand through his hair, trying not to think about how he’d all but yanked it from her grasp. “This would be a hell of a lot easier if you'd just come out and say whatever it is that you want me to do, because I’m getting a fucking brain freeze trying to figure it out on my own.”

Elsa hesitated.

“Are you... actually going to _listen_ to what I am trying to say?” she asked curiously, and Jack was offended all over again. What the hell.  
  
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he blurted, before... shit.  
  
In retrospect, her voice had sounded a lot more… _something—and_ a lot less accusatory—than he’d thought. Now _she_ was looking all offended, but honestly, how the hell was he supposed to know what was going on? She was acting weird. There were too many nerves underneath, like she was—worried? On edge? Her edges frayed _his_ edges. And dammit. He’d lost track of her question.

"Of course I will,” he answered belatedly. Dryly. “Thanks for the stellar faith."

"Oh, _please_ , Jack, you know that's not what I meant."

"Uh, Elsa, at the moment I can't say that I do."

"Ah... All right. Yes… I'm sorry. I don't—I don’t mean to be confusing."  
  
“What… the hell?”  
  
“I know. This isn’t exactly going as I’d hoped.”  
  
“ _Hoped?_ ”  
  
“All right. Please, just—let me try this again, okay?”

“Jesus, Elsa, what are you trying to say?”

“I want to try something new.”

And something about her words— _her tone, her expression, her fingers finding his_ —sent a ball of heat plummeting to his groin.  
  
He knew this was a bad idea.  
  
He _knew_ this was a bad idea.

( _Fuck_.)

Wait.

No.

 _No._ He couldn't get ahead of himself. ( _Jack Frost, keep it the_ fuck _together_.) Even if— _even if—_ there was a chance that Elsa _was_ considering anything even close to the nature of what _he_ was considering—it changed nothing.

( _It could very well destroy everything_.)

Elsa's resulting smile sent his insides swirling sick, and suddenly Jack's chest was very empty and his mouth was very dry, and he was very, very afraid of making any sort of movement to rectify either of those things. ( _No sudden movements; no movements at all._ ) He couldn’t assume anything. ( _You don’t even know what she’s asking_.) It didn’t matter. It didn’t _matter_ , because whatever it was, Jack’s mind—his body—had ideas of its own, and they needed to be put to rest, drowned out, stopped dead in their tracks. ( _You don’t even know what she’s asking_ , mocked a voice, taunting and deep, and he ignored it, swallowed it, didn’t breathe.) The pit in his gut was warm, and his neck was stiff with strain, and his eyes burned heavy.

His chest ached, and it _ached,_ and it ached.

Jack stood without warning, slow and steady and controlled, and a moment later his back was turned to her questioning face. There was a scramble of skirts as Elsa hurried to follow suit, but Jack was already safe by the time she'd risen, breath rekindled and resolve firmly in place.

Firmly.

“Elsa,” he haltingly began.

Her words were civil, but _cutting_. “You aren't going to let me finish?”

Irritation flooded through him. ( _The nerve_ , he thought, ludicrously. _The_ _gall._ )Whether out of simple uncertainty of what to say, or fear of inviting her to finish, he said nothing.

“You are still making assumptions, Jack Frost.”

Against his better judgment, he turned around to face her. There were angry red splotches on her cheeks, and Jack had the immediate urge to touch them. He stifled it.

“You gonna try to tell me that your whole lead-in was _not_ leading up to some sort of bizarre proposal for different ways you could practice control through _proximity_?”

Elsa’s silence was telling.

Hot, cold disappointment stabbed in his gut. Almost pettywith victory, with shock and resentment and fear, Jack murmured, “Thought so.”

“You have been _avoiding_ me, Jack!” Elsa hissed without warning. “You think you're capable of hiding it,” she accused, sharp and biting, “because _somehow_ you’ve managed to forget that you’re not the only one who's waited years to be close to anyone again.” Her face burned with anger. “You’re not the only one capable of feeling invisible, Jack.”

Jack’s hands flexed, itching for something to hold onto. His head swayed back and forth, side-to-side, and it wasn’t quite a near beg, but it was close, “Elsa, I... I don’t know how I can explain it, okay? There are—” There were _reasons_. “You’re right, okay? You’re right. And I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what else I can say.”  
  
“I’ve already learned that you are not one for explanations, Jack Frost; what I’d like from you is not for you to _say_ anything.”  
  
His stomach twisted, hard and fierce. “Well, fine, if that’s how you feel about it, then what the fuck are we standing around talking about it for?” A scoff, unbidden and helpless and angry, and, “Jesus, Elsa, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop acting like I'm this fragile doll that can't be handled!” she exclaimed, fierce and determined and sharp. “Like I'm some delicate porcelain who will break under the slightest pressure!”

Jack blinked, astounded. “Is _that_ what you think?” he demanded, anger rising up. “That I think you're _weak_?”

“I think you assume _much_ , Jack Frost, without knowing the whole truth.”

No. fucking. way.

“Elsa, if you think for _one_ second that I think you're anything less than the most powerful fucking creature I've ever known, you're out of your goddamn _mind._ ”

“It is not my _magic_ that you underestimate!”

Unbidden, Jack's cheeks burned with heat. “Do you think I don't know what you're implying?” he demanded, then burned all the more brightly, certain that he didn't actually know what he was talking about. That he _didn't_ know what she was implying or, indeed, if she was implying anything at all.

But Elsa's eyes were cold, relentless. Quietly, she confessed, “I think you've been pretending not to for a very long time.”  
  
His breath caught in his throat.

“Elsa,” he declared, wavering only slightly, edging his voice with steel. “I'm not gonna fucking give in this time.”

“Jack, you don't even know what I'm _asking._ ”

“I fucking know _enough,_ don’t I?”

“You've never denied me the opportunity of _asking_ before!” she snapped. “Haven't I always respected your right to deny me?”

Jack's head twisted, involuntarily, at the scrape of her words. Fuck.

“Jack, I have always respected your privacy, and your reservations, just as you have always respected mine,” she insisted, and it was such a tightrope to walk, the sound of her voice _—_ “If I ask a question, it is with the knowledge that you may choose not to answer it, or answer it as you see fit. You have always allowed me the courtesy of a _question_ , Jack.”

He had.

But he'd never been quite this terrified of one, either.

"Elsa, look—I—I get what you're saying, okay? The games are too easy now. It's not gonna help you when it comes time to—to move on with your life and meet new people and try new things. I got it, okay?” he placated, nearly pleading, desperate for this conversation to end. “I think you _should_ find new ways to hone your powers, and challenge yourself, of fucking course I do, but if—if you're thinking what I _think_ you're thinking—then I ain't gonna be a part of it."

"Thinking of _what,_ Jack?" Elsa exclaimed, sounding well and truly exasperated, and that couldn't be right—he _couldn't_ be the only thinking about this right now, not with everything that she's said and that she's proposed and fuck it, he _was_ going crazy, he was making shit up in his head. Sick shit, like the sick bastard he was, _pathetic and selfish and foolish and—_ "Jack, what is _wrong?_ "

" _Goddammit_ , Elsa—if I'm gonna get closer to you, it's not gonna be for any stupid training!"

Eyes wide, Elsa stared.

It took Jack a moment for that to hit him.

“I…” he fumbled, panicking, but it was too late.

( _Too_

 _late_.)

"You... _would_ like to be closer?"

Jack's head jerked, violently. "I didn't say that."

A long moment passed. "Is it true?"

No. He was not doing this. This was a disaster in the making, on every level possible. He'd sworn against this very thing _—_ this very _moment—_ with every fiber of his being. For over a year. He wasn't going to lose it now, not now, _not when everything was—_

“Jack,” she whispered, and he shivered. "Would you like to kiss me?"

( _Yes_ , he thought, reeling, and _It doesn't matter what I want_.)

"It's not that simple," he rasped, harshly. The air was like needles in his chest. He needed to get out of here. Needed to _—_

“Because it's against your oath?” she asked, quiet and careful; her gaze, steady and sure.

The oath didn't even _consider_ something like this—that was the problem. _No one_ in their right mind would ever even _consider—_

“It's not something that's ever happened before,” Jack whispered, voice caught with honesty, gritty with fierce determination and—and _anger_. And resentment. He had to _explain_. His head was practically _splitting,_ it hurt so bad. “The oath _wouldn't_ , because the creator never imagined that it'd need to. Assignments don’t _—_ the Belief never lasts long enough to...”

He did not like the sudden light in her eyes.

“So... there aren't any... prohibitions?” Elsa inquired leadingly.

Jack's throat gurgledwith disbelief. “It is _unspoken_ ,” he half-whispered, half-choked, breaths coming short. Elsa looked undeterred. “They would never _expect—_ ”

"Will you be in trouble?"

"Yes," he said, immediately, because he _would_ be; because this went against everything he'd ever promised himself he wouldn't do. Against everything he thought he believed in. Elsa did not look that surprised.  
  
"But only if you get caught,” she stated.

He’d seen Elsa's mouth moving _—_ had watched it form the shapes, the sounds _—_ like she was speaking, but Jack _couldn't_ have heard her, no.

"What?" Jack breathed, eyes unblinking.

Her eyes were searching, wide and open, when she tilted her head up and archly repeated, "But only if you get caught."

 — _caught_.

The idea was ludicrous. By _who?_ By other Guardians? Manny? Mother Nature? ( _Who,_ thought Jack, blindly, _who would care?_ ) But he would.

 _He_ would care.

Even if— _even if_ —he _let_ himself give into such stupid, _stupid,_ selfish wants—he had no idea just how much shit he'd be in. He wouldn't ever tell anyone— _not a soul_ —so not even he knew what kind of trouble would come with the cost.

( _You're not supposed to get too attached to mortals, anyway_.)

Coldness rushed over his skin. Something icy and hard settled in his gut.

Something that felt an awful lot like reality.

“Sometimes the best way to not get caught,” Jack whispered tightly, “is to not get into any trouble in the first place.”

A full moment of shocked silence, and then Elsa's brow arched. “And you would know,” she replied, flatly.

Her tone unsettled him. He blanched. “Are you—are you seriously getting mad at me for this?”

“Are you backing down?” she demanded.

“I don't remember rising _up!_ ” he retorted, then blushed hotly. Elsa looked at him, right _through_ him, in a way she never had before. Like she _knew_.

She knew everything.

“You don't think it's worth the risk?” she challenged, eyes flashing, and Jack Frost's lips, his mouth, his eyes and his hips and his stomach, everything _burned_.

“I think there are rules for a _reason_!” he spat, and her bark of laughter stilled him, halted him in his bones, even as his grimace turned foul.

“Right,” Elsa laughed, soft and sharp, almost cruel. “Because Jack Frost has always cared so much about following the rules.”

Jack's eyes narrowed, face tight.

(If there was one thing Elsa could claim, it was knowing him, and all that he was made of: his strengths and quirks, his values.

 _His weakest spots_.)

Awareness crashed through Elsa's eyes like a hurricane. She ducked her face away from him, faster than he could blink, before he ever had a chance of reaching out.

"I… I’m sorry, Jack," she murmured, bowing her head, refusing to look him in the eye. "That was… unfair of me. If there is one thing you have always been serious about, it is your role as a Guardian.”

Jack stared, stunned.

( _You have always been serious—_ )

“I… I should understand more than anyone the necessity of duty and honor. Please forgive me. This… _goodness_ ,” she laughed sharply, pressing the heel of one palm to her brow. “This was hardly the behavior befitting a future Queen."

His throat was constricting, chest burning.

" _Elsa_ —" His tongue swallowed the words. "It's not—you don't understand—"

"I do," she interrupted, slowly raising her eyes to meet his. He stood frozen, trapped by her gaze. ( _The open disappointment, and sadness_.) "But it seems that I... have forgotten something very important," she confessed evenly, hushed with solemn grace. ( _The apology._ ) "I. I hope you will not think too poorly of me for this."

( _The shame._ )

Jack Frost nearly jolted forward. He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders, to reassure her, solid and firm, that he was there for her, and he would never think—he _couldn't—_

"Never," he whispered, and kept his hands where they were.

Elsa offered up a thin smile, and Jack tried to breathe a sigh of relief. His whole body was thrumming with nervous energy. All he wanted to do now _—all, all he wanted—_ was to move onto a new subject, quickly—get things back to normal _, fix this._

_Don't look at her mouth._

“Jack Frost, I apologize for my behavior.”  
  
He stiffened openly at the formal address. Wrought with tension, heassured her, “There’s nothing to apologize for.”  
  
Her lips disappeared into a firm line. “It would help,” she worded carefully, “if you’d just accept it.”  
  
Jack didn’t like the sound of this.  
  
“Elsa, _stop_ , there’s no reason for you to _—_ ”  
  
“Fine,” she cut him off, turning her head. “Best to let it go, then.”

Jack’s throat was thick with too many unspoken words. It wasn’t enough. There was still so much more that should be said, but _—let it go, then._

Fine.  
  
Jack could play that game. ( _He was an expert. It was practically second nature, by now._ ) Jack picked back up right where they left off, and was shocked at how easy it was to find his footing. With good grace and plenty of practice, the lightness was a lot easier to find and hold onto.  
  
"So… what now, then?”  
  
“I… I’m not sure.”  
  
 _Come on, Elsa._ The game wouldn’t work if he was the only one playing.  
  
Forcing brightness into his voice was a lot easier when it came with a slightly sarcastic edge. Humor was best served dry, after all.

“How about a rousing debate on checker regulations?” he snarked good-naturedly, crossing his arms with a sheepish smile at his transparent attempt at redirection. “Or maybe read up some more on one of those fancy philosopher names I can't pronounce?” he joked. (Dry humor was best, but self-deprecation was a close second.) “Make another trip for some lemon bars?"

Elsa’s smile was thin, but it was there. It was a start. "Thank you, Jack… but I… could really use some time to think."

"Oh, well—okay. Journal it is, then,” he nodded, plowing forward out ofsheer nerves alone. They felt raw and open. Exposed. Jack tried not to look too awkward or sound too stilted when he asked, “Do you want the desk or the windowsill? I think it's your turn at the window seat, yeah?"

"Jack, actually… I think it'd be best if you went elsewhere."  
  
 _If I…?_

"Uh—are you sure you don’t wanna, like—sneak up to the library? The loft one. Or the main, if that's what you'd prefer—everybody's probably asleep by now, except for maybe _Pavel_ , but. You know. It's not like he'll really be walking around that wing, any—"

"Jack, I think you should go."

"I… what?"

"I said… I need some time to think," Elsa whispered, then swallowed. "Alone."

There was a clenching in his chest. His head felt dizzy.

And then he breathed, "Oh."

"Jack, I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm rather—" Her voice broke off into laughter, brittle and sharp, and she stared down at the floor, face falling. Jack watched it all with a tight lump in his throat, with not a damn thing to say.

"I'm rather ashamed of myself, actually," she whispered, licking her lips, and Jack couldn't help it, when he instinctively stepped forward. Elsa's face darted up, alarmed.

"No," Jack started, equally alarmed, without knowing what it was that he was even reassuring her for, exactly. Shit. "Elsa—"

"Jack, please," she insisted, eyes clouded. "I want you to go."

Jack stayed still, in shock.

"I'm not myself at the moment, and I… I'd hate to make even more of a fool of myself than I already have."

What was she talking about? _Fuck._ If she only _knew_ —

"Elsa—you're not—you don't have to—"

"But I do," she answered evenly, and Jack saw it, the precise moment that her shoulders tilted back, that her spine straightened and her chin lifted higher. ( _Conceal_.) "Honestly, it was foolish of me to even suggest it,” she confessed, “and it was wrong for me to react the way I did when… when you only responded reasonably, the way you should."

( _Don't feel._ )

 _Oh_ —fuck _no._

( _Elsa, don't you_ dare _pull that shit with me—_ )

No. _No_. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t what was _supposed to happen_. Jack Frost needed to protect her _—_ how the fuck was he supposed to keep her safe if she wanted him gone? It was _—it was—_

It was exactly what he’d always feared it would be.

"Elsa," he rasped out, the words coming out thick now, quick and sudden, pouring from his chest. "It's not that I don't—that I don't want to—to be _closer_ to you, it's not that at all—it's just that—we have to—"

"You don't have to explain," Elsa cut him off; an _edge_ , sharp and clear. He could feel it pressing to this throat. "In fact, I'd... I'd rather that you wouldn't."

"Elsa—"

"I _understand_ , Jack, but it doesn't change how I feel, or that I need a few days to myself."

Jack's mouth went dry. _Just..._ "A few… days?"  
  
No.

(No, no no _no_ _nonononononononono_ no.)

Elsa swallowed, with difficulty. "Perhaps," she said quietly. "Maybe… I don't know."

His throat wasn't working anymore. His eyes itched.

Fuck.

"I… O-kay," he replied quietly, biting his tongue. His swallow wasn’t really a swallow. There was bile. "Should I… should I leave now, then?"

"Please."

Jack Frost might have nodded, numb and heavy. "All—all right," he whispered, and took a hollow step forward. She saw him to the window.

His foot was on the seat and his hand was on the ledge when Jack Frost spun back toward her, turned narrowed eyes on her widened ones, and said, "No, wait. Elsa—this is—this is _stupid_. I'm not leaving you alone—especially not like _this_." He planted his foot back on the floor, staff held tight in his fist, and stared down at her, pleading and guilty and inexplicably angry.

 _Fuck_ Pitch. Fuck the danger and the threat to their Memories and the New Moon and whatever hell else there was out there that was out to get them.

He wasn’t fucking leaving Elsa for anything.

"What the hell are a few fucking days going to do?” he demanded, fierce as hell and twice as mad. “ _Nothing._ Except let this fester, which is only gonna drive both of us mad!"

"We're _already_ going mad!" Elsa hissed, stalking toward him, and Jack nearly stumbled at the simmering ferocity, the sudden heat of anger in her eyes, the clench of her fists. "We can't both of us stay in this room any longer, Jack—you have your own duties to attend to and I—" 

"Stop pulling the _duties_ card!" he snapped, hand spread flat and wide against the invisible wall between them. "You can't just keep _shoving_ me off every time something gets difficult!"

"Your duties are part of who you _are_ ," she sniped, "though after three hundred years, I should hardly think it would need reminding!"

Jack reared back, sucking in a breath. Elsa stared up at him, a deadly glare, without a lick of remorse.

She meant it.

"So, what—you're just gonna lock the window behind me?" Jack spat, as something seared in his chest, so cold it felt hot, sudden and suffocating. "Fucking send me away, then pretend nothing's changed whenever _you_ decide it's okay for me to come back?" That was—that was _horrible_ , and so fucking insensitive of him to say—he knew that. ( _He_ was the one who could leave, _but so can she_ , his mind argued, vehemently, violently, if she just, if she just _fucking_ —)

"Well?" he demanded, mind-splitting fury.

Elsa said nothing.

" _Well?_ " he demanded in the silence the followed.  
  
Terrible silence. Terrible, heart-clenching, stomach-churning silence—enough to blur Jack’s eyes and scrape against the insides of his ribs—and he was about to fucking lose it, and then.

"You... will come back. Won't you?"

The anger left him in one fluid motion. His stomach tumbled. He felt dizzy.

"I… of course," he managed, voice thick.

Elsa nodded, quiet and sullen. "I'm sorry, Jack," she whispered, and with a startling jolt, Jack realized—she was struggling not to cry. His hands reached for her shoulders, but stuttered through the air. It wasn't his place to touch her. It wasn't his right.

It wasn't right.

"Just please go," she whispered, hugging her arms around herself. "Please. Just—two days. Is that all right? Two days will be enough. I don't… I don't know what it will help, but all I know is that I can't… _stand_ the thought of being in the same room with you right now. It's not... fair for me to force what I'm feeling upon you… especially when neither of us truly have the choice."

"Elsa... You know I—"

"Just _please_ , go."

So he did.

. * * * .

  
He lost the battle as soon as the wind met his face; droplets of moisture streamed past his ears, pulled and stoked by the cold and the gale, and Jack swiped at them angrily, uselessly. And then, after a while, they stopped.  
  
 _He_ stopped.  
  
He ended up somewhere over the Western Seas, at the crossroads without land. The night sky was vast and dark, and the heavy waves below made Jack feel nauseous, claustrophobic without any walls at all, just endless open space. The world was so big, and he was so young— _so old_ —and he was so very, very stupid. 

Who the fuck could he turn to? This was unprecedented. No one had any _idea_ what kind of shit had been stirring inside of Jack’s brain—the other Guardians? _Ha!_ They all thought he was still quietly pining after the Queen, and egging him on in his pathetic attempts at flirting with Toothiana. ( _What would they even say? Call him out like the sick freak that he was? The poor failure for a Guardian? The immortal King of Fools?_ )

Bunny.

Jack knew immediately that Bunny would listen to him. Bunny would know what to do. He wouldn't judge—or maybe he _would,_ but Jack didn't exactly have the luxury of caring at the moment. Bunny would know what to do.

And he couldn't do this alone.

Jack raced headlong, flying further into the west. He’d pick up enough speed, and then he’d throw the portal open, head straight for the Warren. From there, he’d enchant the eggs to set more of their notification wards in Arendelle. He couldn’t leave the kingdom, couldn’t leave _Elsa_ — _but he had to_ —and if he had to, then at least he could reinforce their magic, up their protection, construct new barriers to add to the old, to let Jack keep her safe while he was away. Banished.  
  
His snowglobe grew heavy in his pocket.  
  
Throat raw, Jack hurled in another rasping breath, tight and thick and made of the western winds. The clouds were endlessly gray— _dark enough to drown the shadows_ —and Jack increased his speed, a silent bullet of power in a world all his own— _all alone_ —and _fuck_ , he was crying again.  
  
 _This is how it has to be._

Jack repeated it to himself, over and over, all the way across the Western Seas.

He never made it to the Warren.

. * * * .

  
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“Jack?” Elsa whispered, eyes wide with alarm. “What are you doing here?” 

Holding her gaze, Jack soundlessly, gently lowered his staff to the floor. Elsa watched him with open wariness, open astonishment—but not fear _._

With slow, calculated, artful strides, he stepped forward.

“ _Jack_ ,” she called suddenly, clutching at her braid, voice catching in her throat. She’d loosened it from its twist so that it hung down over her shoulder. Her fingers worried the ends, twisting the strands into careless knots. She was in her nightgown. She'd meant to retire for the night.

His bare feet met wooden boards, each silent step a sluggish, steady mismatch to the pounding chaos of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. He moved with cautious, conspicuous, unwavering strides; straightforward enough for her to see him coming, certain enough for her to see that he had no intention of stopping.

Slow enough to halt him in his tracks.

His heart welled in his throat as he passed the wooden posts of her bed, as the distance between them became mere paces away. He could see the whites of her wide blue eyes, the subtle, frantic heaving of her chest. His face, his neck, his chest, his stomach—all of it warmed and flushed, and the nerves almost swallowed him up, just for a moment, but he didn't stop, and Elsa didn't stop him.

" _Jack_ ," she hissed, when he came before her, when she took an unsteady step back. "This isn't funny," she whispered, eyes drenched with hurt, fierce with unshed tears and betrayal. Her fingers held tight to her braid like an anchor, and Jack's dry lips parted with shallow breaths and unspoken words and apologies.

He could hear her breathing like waves crashing upon a shore, heavy and harsh and unpredictable _—panic, without the attack_ —and see the silent storm in her eyes, the magic within. Fierce and questioning, anxious and anticipating, disbelieving and believing and jaded and hoping, and with shaking fingers, Jack took her face in his hands.

He searched her face, desperately seeking any trace of denial, or rejection, his heart pumping blood and hope through his veins, but Elsa only watched him, painfully curious, with the same overwhelming sense of understanding that had dawned the moment he'd stepped through her window. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers, and her cheeks were delicate beneath his touch, and some of the soft strands of her hair slipped free from its braid. He was aware of every precious breath of space, and he lowered his face downwards slightly, eyes searching, asking without words.

His forehead was nearly brushing hers when he stilled, eyes darting across her face— _for a sign, any sign at all_ —waiting for an answer, whatever it might be.

"What changed?" she whispered.

Nothing. Nothing and everything, and she had and he had, and time would do it again, would eventually tear them apart. He knew that. There was only one difference.

"I kept telling myself that it'd hurt, eventually," he breathed, barely any sound. "That you'd get hurt, and we'd both be hurt, and that it was better to hurt _now_ , rather than later, when the pain would just get so much worse." A breathy, nervous bite of unexpected laughter. "Like that might somehow make it hurt _less_."

Elsa stared up at him, still as stone save for the rise and fall of her chest, broken and breaking and yet still so much more together than he was, a perfect statue with no visible cracks.

"And now?"

Jack gently pressed his forehead to hers, dared not close his eyes, held his breath, and raggedly whispered, "It still hurts."

He could feel it, when her breath hitched in her throat.

"What about… what about the others?" Elsa faltered, fingers clenching over the spill of her braid, voice catching over the missing patches of air. "Do they—do they know? Isn't everything you said true? If it's not—if it's _forbidden_ —"

"The only thing I've ever been serious about is you."

Elsa halted, worry and confusion and concern creeping into the line between her brow. He wanted to smooth it out with his finger, but couldn't bear to release his hold.

"What?" she whispered, lost.

Minutely, Jack shook his head. She'd already forgotten.

Whatever happened next, she had to understand.

"It's not about me being a Guardian," he whispered. "It's never been about… about obligation or… or my duties, or any of it. I helped fix the world because I was the one of the ones who almost fucked it up in the first place, and I kept protecting it because it gave me my family. Because—for once in my whole goddamn sham-of-a-life, it gave me a purpose. I didn't do it because it was my innate duty, or because of anything like honor, or decency. I did it because I was guilty, and selfish enough to want to be seen," he told her, laying down the ugly truth. He shouldn't have been telling her this now, but he had to. She had to know. He swallowed a lump down a dry, achy throat, and wasn't surprised when he found his heart still lodged there. "I did it to try to figure out who I was. To have a family again. To get what I wanted." He licked his dry, cracking lips. "But being a Guardian isn't what's most important to me. Not anymore."

"Jack... you aren't guilty of any of those things, or—"

"It's you," he whispered, unyielding. "I swear it. The only thing I've ever been truly serious about is you."

Elsa stared back at him, speechless. He could see that she didn't believe him. She, who always put others before herself; she couldn't possibly understand the sort of selfishness that held Jack together. Of course she couldn't.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered, stunned.

Jack shook his head, slowly, strikingly. A sharp quirk of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips, delirious and doomed, and he breathed out a stilted laugh through his teeth and stroked his thumbs along her cheeks and said, "I don't know, either."

Could he do this? Could he look his family in the eye the following morning, when the sun had risen and the world kept spinning? This wouldn't stop him from being a Guardian. It wouldn't stop the world from changing, or time from passing, or Elsa from aging, or Pitch from threatening to tear everything apart. 

He already knew the answer.

"Jack," Elsa whispered, with fresh light in her eyes, bright and fierce and promising. "Would you like to kiss me?"

He inhaled and exhaled, said goodbye to whatever remained of his human decency, and let out an exhausted, aching, " _Yes._ "

Elsa's lips stopped just shy of his, and then they were moving against him, pulling broken sounds from deep within his throat, and she whispered, "I'd like you to."

Jack's mouth was on hers before she'd finished the words, fingers curling around the base of her skull, crushing her closer than he'd ever thought possible. A sweet, sated sound filled his mouth, a soft whimper that went straight to his core, and Elsa's cold fingers clutched tightly at his collar, pulling at him as he pressed against her, and then a matching sound escaped him, low and overwhelmed and gasping and guttural, and burning, and _fuck_ , those were tears in his eyes.

Elsa's hands slid higher onto his neck as he molded his mouth to hers, tilting his head to open her lips, the way that felt _right_ , because it did, it felt right, it felt righter than anything Jack had ever done before, anything he could have hoped for, and their teeth were clashing and his lips were rough and wet, and it almost hurt— _it hurt so much_ —and as he sucked and nipped and slid his mouth over hers, a lone hiccup of breath stole the air from his lungs.

When he pulled back to look at her face, his stomach lurched with impossible force, enough to nearly knock him off his feet. Elsa laughed a painful note, and reached up to wipe her tears away. Jack beat her to it.

"How foolish are we?" she whispered, allowing him to thumb away the bitter tracks. "Are we mad?"

Jack's thumbs gently swiped the sadness away. He traced the curve of her lower lash. The swell of her lips.

"Jack Frost," he whispered, a ghost of a smile. "King of Fools."

Elsa watched him carefully, and Jack let her. There was no longer anything to hide.

 _Well_ , Jack thought, stomach clenching.

Almost.

"Yes," Elsa whispered, and Jack weakened, eyes fluttering closed as she cupped his cheek. He could hear her almost-smile. "And I, the Queen."

Jack's eyes opened with heavy lids and drank in the details of her face. Committing this moment to Memory.

He sought her mouth with his own, open and wanting, and reveled in the sound of surprise that vibrated into his throat, that curled his toes. Her fingers dug little half-moons into the skin at his neck, and Jack's hands traveled blissful curves and valleys to reach her shoulders, her hips, her back. It was too much, and not enough, and it was blind instinct that compelled him to gather the long skirt of her nightgown in his fists, to bunch it at her hips and sweep her up and into his arms before he could so much as acknowledge her sound of alarm, and then she was there against him, bare legs clenched intoxicatingly around his hips, small set of her back within his steady hold, and she was right there, and this was right, no matter what happened, no matter what the fuck anybody said. It was right.

And it was real.

By some miracle of nature, Jack managed to stumble to the bed. There was a little voice in the back of his mind, panicky and self-conscious and stinging, _you don't know what you're doing, you've never done this before_ , but Jack didn't care, he didn't care, it didn't matter, he'd figure it out as he went along.

He set Elsa upon the bed as gently as he could, but he stumbled and she clung, and his knee came down upon the mattress heavy and sharp, bouncing them and knocking teeth and sore lips, but Elsa didn't pause long enough to have it register, kept clutching at his hoodie and the hold of his neck. Jack gasped a harsh and shocked sound at the brief brush of Elsa's thigh against his hardened cock, and caught himself on his forearms and knees when he fell. His eyes slammed shut as Elsa's mouth slipped onto his cheek, became emboldened by the feel and moved lower, sliding along his jaw and under it, both of them panting and shaking and raw. Jack twisted himself onto his side, putting precious, painful space between their legs, and delved into another kiss, deep and certain and hungry and that was her _tongue_ , this was real, this was everything.

And it was right, and it was happening, and it was theirs alone.

. * * * .  


Eventually, the kisses slowed and deepened, transforming from the frenzied, uncertain urgency to the careful, tentative pouring of something deeper, and then, altogether, the kissing stopped.

Jack and Elsa lay upon their sides in the quiet comfort of night, fingers intertwined in the meager space between them, and watched the other's face. Jack knew that there were things to be said—things that _should_ be said—but he didn't want to ruin this with words.

It wasn't at all surprising then, when the first one to speak was Elsa; it was more than a little disconcerting, however, that the first thing she said was:

"What about Toothiana?"

Jack's throat froze solid, and then he remembered the truth. "I haven't promised anyone anything."

"I know."

Of course. Jack Frost didn't make promises.

 _Not often_.

He wanted to add more—to defend himself, perhaps, or maybe to explain—but then another horrifying, sickening thought occurred to him.

"What about Henrik?"

Elsa blinked. Clearly bemused, she said, "I'm not thinking about Henrik right now."

Jack's frown deepened, then wobbled wryly. And his chest felt so light and so tense all at once, when he cropped up a smirk and muttered, "I fucking hope not."

Elsa's easy laughter sent his toes curling in the covers, and he didn't realize it, the weight of the moment, until it was being lifted from his shoulders. It was relief. It was contentment and happiness; it was the tiny, ever-present voice at the back of his mind whispering _careful, this won't last,_ and the flooring realization that he didn't have to listen to it, not now.

"I'm never this lucky," he whispered, because it was true, and he needed to say it. Elsa's smile was soft, and close-lipped with good humor, and enough to warm him three times over.

"Neither am I," she whispered back.

Jack stared at her for a long moment, wondering at how they'd gotten this far, and lifted his head to settle closer to her on the pillow. Elsa's eyes danced and glittered as he waited, prolonging the moment, like always, but this time the action held a different kind of spark.

Anticipation.

"I don't know if it's okay to kiss you again," he admitted.

"I'd like you to," she whispered back, eyes smiling. "But I understand if you'd rather n—"

He drank in her taste and soaked up her warmth, and wrapped his arms around her with surprising grace and strength, and held her like she was the most cherished piece of his world. Like she was the world itself, capable of hardship and resilience and strength and forgiveness, of bitterness and healing, and hurting, and feeling, and seeing and Believing.

There would be plenty of time for talk in the morning.

But for now, she was safe, and in his arms, and it was every bit as satisfying as he could have imagined.

No matter the cost.

. * * * . 

The darkened skies were quiet for the rest of the night. There came no news of Nightmares, or Guardians, or Kings or Queens.

The only real darkness came from a blanket of clouds and the absent face of the New Moon,  
hidden behind Mother Nature's wall.

Certain and silent and invisible. 

. * * * .

 


	158. - the dawn -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _1/26/15_. Guess whose city declared a State of Emergency in honor of Juno? The same girl whose school is closed both tomorrow and Wednesday. Prepare for updates!!
> 
> I want to give another HUGE thank you to the overwhelming support and feedback I received for the previous chapter! I take great pride in all of my fanfiction, but this story has become a particular favorite of mine, and I can't tell you all how much your continued love/reading/fanart/fanvideos/everything means to me. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also, since the posting of the last chapter, I've been breaking up a bit of the ATC angst with my first-ever stab at epistolary fanfiction, based off the prompt: Person A sends postcards to the wrong address, Person B sends them back (with increasingly snarky/flirtatious notes). It's hella fun.
> 
>  **[check the pipes for frost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3109913/chapters/6737729) ;**  
>  Modern AU/Crossover, Epistolary [3/6] : Jack Frost/Elsa. Rated M. **{ 27,172+ words. }**  
>  _A series of correspondence from two people who probably would never have known each other at all, if not for Anna’s terrible organizational skills. Postcards, letters, e-mails, and texts, and—somewhere, in between all the lines—attraction. Maybe. Neither of them have exactly ever done this before._
> 
> You can also find [prinskristoff](http://prinskristoff.tumblr.com)'s _gorgeous_ jelsa edit for it [here](http://prinskristoff.tumblr.com/post/109143981049)! ~~I will never be over it.~~ I will no doubt be making at least one or two more updates to CTPFF before I go back to school on Thursday, and from then on, there's only one chapter left! Check it out. ;)
> 
> And now...

 

. * * * .

_\- the dawn -_

. * * * .

**Days Until Christmas: 24**   


The first snowfall.

(The morning of December first. The dawn after the New Moon.)

He briefly wondered if it was a sign— _a blessing, maybe, from Mother Nature_ —then promptly tossed the idea out the proverbial window; Mother Nature only did whatever she felt like doing, and usually not for the benefit of the Guardians. In fact, Jack would bet his staff that Mother Nature only had half an idea of who he was, anyway, so she probably wouldn't even notice the kinds of decisions he made, let alone care enough to form an opinion on them.

Still. It was rather fitting, Jack thought. Snow on the ground, frost in the air—

And Elsa, in his arms.

( _Jack figured that if there were ever a time to feel poetic,  
now would be as good a time as any._ )

Jack stroked her hair where it fell across her temple, tucked beneath his chin. Elsa had fallen asleep sometime shortly after midnight, and Jack had laid awake for hours, thinking... because for someone who got through (after)life by skating by—who lived through making a show of do nothing unless it was half-assed—Jackson Overland, and thereby Jack Frost, was, at his core, an all-or-nothing sort of guy.

Somehow, he'd known this.

And sometime around the first trace of sunlight, Jack realized that this, above all else, was probably one of the reasons why he'd held out for so long.

Jack wrapped his arms around Elsa more tightly, caught her sigh against his chest, and waited for her to wake up.

. * * * .

Her fingers curled, dragging the fabric tight across his heart.

Jack looked down, was suddenly terrified; staying here was a horrible mistake. (He should have moved to the window. He should have moved to the floor or—) A deep sigh tickled at his collar, and then the body against him stiffened. Jack's fingers had long since stilled, lost somewhere in her hair, and a deep and suffocating tightness clawed at his chest as a fierce ball of lead hardened in his stomach, as he mentally prepared himself to pull away.

“I almost thought I'd dreamt it,” she whispered.

The relief and the pressure threatening to crack open his sternum warred for the space of a single breath, and then Jack released them both in a shallow puff. Imperceptibly, his fingers relaxed into the strands of her hair.

“Nah,” he breathed out, heartbeat humming, blood thrumming, too many thoughts crowding in his head. “That was better than any dream.”

“Hm,” came Elsa's sleepy sigh. Her cheek turned against his sweatshirt, just slightly, but Jack felt it as if the world had shifted, as if the essence of gravity itself had been redefined, and then she smiled into his chest, “It felt a lot like the other ones, though.”

There was a lump in Jack's throat that seemed determined to stay there. He pressed the full weight of his hand to the side of her head, cradling the beautiful mind he knew was in there, and let his eyes travel to the sight of their legs, long and tangled together.

So.

She wasn't dreaming about Henrik, after all.

The realization wasn't as comforting as he might have thought.

He wasn't entirely conscious of how still he'd gone until Elsa lifted herself from his chest; it was a very conscious effort, then— _filled with dread and hope and anticipation and some unnamable guilt_ —when he dragged his heavy eyes upwards, and rested them on hers.

Elsa looked at him like she was picking apart each and every thought in his head, which wasn't unusual; the question of just how long she'd known truly them, though— _like old friends, familiar and predictabl_ e—and how long she'd harbored thoughts like his, thoughts like his own, however—that was an entirely different matter. She rested her waist against his, pressed him down into the pillows with her small hands, and looked at his face, all over. He didn't know what to say.

“Good morning,” she whispered, and it sounded like, _I love you_.

Jack swallowed the sudden surge of bile that threatened to rise up in his throat. Less than an hour after dawn and he was already getting ahead of himself; _I Believe in you_ , he thought instead, replacing the words with something that wasn't so terrifying. There. Better.

“Good morning,” he whispered back, smiling softer and wider as she smiled. He didn't know what he was saying or not saying, but he had a feeling that Elsa understood. Her fingers began playing with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt, and he wanted to kiss her.

“There are... some things I should tell you,” Jack forced himself to begin, his voice steady while his heart felt anything but. ( _Still_ —this felt like the right thing to do, and the feeling seared all the way down into his chest.)

The drawstrings were tugged and stretched and he fixated on them, appreciated them in a way he hadn't ever before. “What kinds of things?” she asked, like it was a game, but her face was guarded. ( _What is she thinking?_ ) Expecting the worst? That he regretted what they'd done?

( _Never._ )

A fleeting, breath-catching thought stole through his lungs— _does_ she _regret...?—_ and then it was gone, possibly forever, because Elsa never did anything without absolute conviction.

Jack gently took hold of the hand playing with the strings at his chest, and didn't let go. A single brush of his thumb over cold knuckles, pale and delicate and so very, very powerful.

“Things that maybe I should have told you earlier,” he admitted eventually, with a touch of discomfort. “Even though I technically couldn't. Wasn't allowed to, I mean.”

Elsa glanced up, immediately intrigued. Reasonably, she asked, “So why would you tell me now?”

To his horror, Jack blanched, then blushed. “Well,” he fumbled. _You know why_. “It doesn't feel right to keep it from you anymore.”

Apparently, that wasn't enough. Elsa cocked a brow, challenging and playful and the teensiest bit accusatory all at once; something warm bubbled in his chest. Elsa resumed her playing with his drawstrings, and slyly asked, “Isn't it against your rules?”

The sensation inside his chest toppled over, breaking out into warmth all through his limbs, freeing his skin of the itch he hadn't noticed until now. The urge to _play_ was returning, but it was slow in coming; balking, yet still somehow unable to keep a baffled chuckle inside his throat, Jack warbled out a snarky, half-bitter grin. “So _now_ you're concerned about the rules?”

“Please, Jack. I am a woman of order and justice.”

Jack stared at her, at her level gaze and her sereneexpression, at the playfulness in her eyes, and felt his stomach flip itself over all over again. He was already leaning in, leaning _up_ , when she asked, “Is it that bad?”

It took him a moment to remember.

And then once he did, his hesitation spoke more than his words probably could. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

The air shifted, a late autumn cold gone crisp, and Jack took in the feeling, drew power from the chill in the air. Elsa sensed it immediately.

“I... won't say everything. Not because I can't, but because I _won't_ ,” he told her honestly, open and shuttered all at once, because Elsa's face was guarded—but not afraid, not quite, because she was Guarded and protected and he wanted to do this _right_ , wanted to show Elsa his trust, wanted her to _understand_ , wanted her to still not be afraid. “Not because I don't trust you,” he defended immediately, before she could even have the chance to think it. “But because this... this _thing_ is vindictive,”Jack nearly spat. “It's determined to ruin _everything_ ,” he declared vehemently, “and I won't feed it any more than I have to.”

Elsa blinked, stunned. Eventually, “What do you mean?”

Jack took hold of her hands, both because he liked having something to hold onto—an _anchor?—_ and simply, because he wanted to.

Because she'd let him.

“What I'm trying to say is... there are ways of fueling darkness even through something as simple as addressing it by name,” Jack said gravely, smoothing the undersides of Elsa's fingers with his thumbs. “By acknowledging it as a... a _being_. If I can keep that... that _power_ from growing, from touching you, I will.”

Elsa listened intently, but Jack could only guess at what was going through her mind. Was she offended? Intrigued?

Scared?

“Look,” Jack said suddenly, switching tactics. “The truth is—things are really bad right now. Actually. It's been bad for a while. You know a bit of it, but... shit hit the fan about a year and a half ago, and we haven't really figured out how to solve it yet.” He hesitated, then plunged. “Our Memories are at stake, too.”

Elsa's eyes widened, just a little. She shifted slightly, to better see his face, and looked at him with a peculiar expression. “Your Memories?” she whispered.

His jaw inevitably clenched. (How much exactly had he told her about his weakness for them? That his Memories once meant more to him than the world?

That he'd nearly destroyed it in search of them?)  
  
“Well... technically,” Jack added, strained, “yours are, too.”

It was quiet for a moment. He distracted himself with the softness of her hands, and the recurring realization that he could touch them now, whenever he wanted. His stomach warmed again at the thought. “What... does that mean, exactly?”

“It means... What it means is... I should start over. This is what you need to know: there is a force out there, something a lot older than any of us—even North—that feels as though it has been wronged,” said Jack, tired and grim. “It's dangerous, and it's seeking revenge... on those who stopped it almost twenty years ago.” Jack glanced to Elsa meaningfully. “Who sent him back into hiding after centuries of plotting, after stopping him from ruining the happiness of children all over the world. Worlds. Ugh. Sorry, I know it's a lot to take in.”

“Has it?”

Jack's fingers paused. Confused, and unable to remember, Jack furrowed his brows. “Has it what?”

“Been wronged?”

( _Oh_.)

Jack opened his mouth. Closed it. Smoothed his thumbs over her knuckles, one-by-one-by-one. “Depends on who you ask,” he answered.

Elsa's head tilted to the side. “And if I ask you?” she pressed.

Jack grinned a wry smile, indeed. “I think we all got screwed over, one way or another.”

A cold touch found his cheek, and Jack's eyes snapped to hers, startled. He hadn't realized he'd been drifting off, but Elsa—as if sensing the darkness creeping into his thoughts—had already reeled him back in. His chest tightened with the force of his sudden, everlasting gratitude for her, the constant dawning reminder that _this—this_ isn't _a dream_. It was real.

“So what do we do now?” Elsa asked, effectively halting Jack in his tracks. They were very suddenly close, nearly nose-to-nose, and his lips were tingling at the very forefront of his awareness. He blinked, trying to remember her question.

 _You're asking me?_ he wanted to joke, and laugh, and keep things simple. _C'mon, Elsa—we both know you're the brains of this operation_.

  
But instead he breathed deep and settled them further into the softness of the bed. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to,” was what he said first, because he felt that it was important. “But... Bunny would really like for you to keep drinking his sugar cube-tea... You already figured out that it keeps you awake, and... well, we never talked about it, but I'm assuming you connected the dates, and that we only ever drank it on the night of the New Moon. But now it—the timing isn't really so predictable anymore, because it's not just during the New Moon that it strikes—at least, not anymore. But it's still the night when Manny's vision is the worst, so... he'd feel a lot better if you took it.” Jack brushed the bangs from her eyes and said, “ _I'd_ feel a lot better if you took it.”

Elsa's small fingers curled delicately over his, but it felt an awful lot like wrapping them around his heart.

“The best option would have been to get Sandy to give you a Dreamless sleep,” he rushed out, suddenly overwhelmed. “But—sometimes not dreaming is worse. And it doesn't matter, because Sandy probably wouldn't be able to spare the precious sand, anyway. We're... a little low on energy these days.”

“Even you?”

His hand silently found the curve of her neck. He liked the way it felt there. Like the look of his long fingers dipping gently over her pale skin, resting against collar and bone. “Not so much,” he answered quietly. His eyes flicked up to hers. “There isn't so much weight to carry around anymore.”

Careful fingers carded through his hair, from temple to base, and back again. Bits of memory surfaced— _touches, and open-mouthed kisses, and fingernails on his skull_ —and heat stirred in his groin, in his chest, a sliver in his brain. The sensations flooded into his memory, so clear and fresh and vivid, and the world paused, just for a moment, to focus; _so much had happened—_ all at once—and Jack had taken in as much as he could the night before, had blended the feelings and touches into waves of sensation and warmth. But this—this small, momentous act of running her fingers through his hair, separate and simple and unsolicited, was something he'd never allowed himself to visualize, hadn't been able to extract from the overwhelming sense of _this is real, it's real, this is real real real real_ and now, now it simply was.

“I suppose it's a relief to be able to share it,” Elsa observed.

Jack looked up at her, and knew that he'd do anything in the world to protect her.

He held her gaze for a moment, just a moment longer, then reached over and carefully lifted her journal from the nightstand.

“I need you to write in this,” he explained, while Elsa stared at him wide-eyed in what may or may not have been a mild panic. She calmed somewhat, but still eyed his fingers suspiciously. Jack might have been amused, any other day, might have made a game of chase.

But not today.

“I always do,” Elsa answered, perplexed.

“I know,” swallowed Jack. “But I need you to... to keep writing in it. Maybe not every day, but close. Whatever you want. Write the bad stuff if you need to, to get it out, but... make sure you remember the good stuff, too. It's important.”

She was looking at him strangely, and Jack wasn't sure what to make of it. So much curiosity, which had always felt normal; now the scrutiny made him feel like his palms should be sweating. That feeling, among many other strange and insignificant things about his human life, was something he'd actually remembered.

“All right,” she answered, because she trusted him. Gently, she slipped the journal from his hold, and in the same breath, raised herself to sit, pressed up against his side. He liked this view better, but it was too cold.

“I got you another one,” he blurted, stealing her attention back from the pages once more. What was he doing? This felt like cheating. He was copping out, but— “I... North didn't think you'd have much more space in this one, so. I made you another one.”

Great. Real fucking smooth.

He felt fingertips skittering over his sternum and the heavy weight of a well-worn journal. She was leaning forward into his line of vision, and the ridge of her forearm was pressing in against his lungs, and Jack suddenly had nowhere else to look.

“We were gonna wait until Christmas,” he added, inexplicably nervous. “But you should have it earlier, just in case.”

Elsa found his jaw, and the space beneath it. The backs of her fingers were smooth, with little aristocratic bones and sharp, fine angles. He tried not to swallow, and failed.

“We?” she echoed.

Jack chewed on the his tongue for a moment, may have actually rolled his eyes, and said, “Me.” Another distressed, irritated flick of his eyes, and then, “ _I_.”

Which was when she decided to lean her head down, and kiss him.

“Thank you,” she breathed against his mouth, though he only half-heard it, only recognized vaguely that they were words at all, rather than just a feeling spread out between them, captured between their lips. She was smiling, a little. She sounded like she was smiling.

And Jack, in all of his cleverness and glory, could only think to say, “I haven't given it to you yet...”

“Then imagine my gratitude for when you do,” she whispered, nose brushing nose. Nuzzling. Is this what it felt like to nuzzle? (To _be_ nuzzled?) Her voice held a tone of promise, of something sly and something more, when she dipped her mouth to just graze over his, and whispered, “I imagine my gratitude will only grow more generous.”

“...gratitude,” Jack repeated mindlessly, because it was funny, because Jack didn't think she had any idea just how much gratitude filled _him_ up—or, then again. Maybe she did.

They stayed like that for a while, just touching mouths, dragging lips back and forth in soft sweeps and lazy seconds, sharing warmth. Or Elsa's, anyway.

“Things are only going to get more complicated,” Elsa whispered eventually. “Aren't they?”

“I don't know,” Jack answered flippantly, dancing his fingers up her arm. Her lips parted above his open mouth, and something hot and fierce curled in his gut. “Maybe... not everything.”

Which was the the perfect opportunity to steal a kiss, straight to the underside of her jaw. Elsa's eyes widened, but when she stared down at him in incredulous surprise—the gentle ease of the moment completely forgotten—Jack only grinned back.

“Wait,” he whispered, suddenly nervous. “I'm allowed to do that. Right?”

Elsa's grin turned feline. “Depends on who you ask.”

He didn't care about the swirling in his gut. It could swirl all it wanted, until he passed out, even. He didn't want it to stop. “I'm asking _you_ ,” he declared, leaning closer.

“I haven't decided yet.”

Jack Frost did not _pout._ “That's not very Queen-like.”

“I am borne of diplomacy. Such things take careful consideration.”

 _Consideration_ , somehow, ended up being the strangest and most enjoyable pillow fight Jack Frost had ever bravely encountered. The pillow fight degenerated into uncharted territory—a tickle fight, of which Jack hadn't experienced in over three centuries, and proved to be an infinitely more enjoyable experience when shared with a beautiful girl who let him continue to touch her hips, even afterwards.

He didn't know what they were doing. There was so much at stake, and so much to face, and no one to show him the way. They'd figure it out as they went, as they always did, whatever path that took.

And if Pitch even sent so much as one speck of black sand near this world—

He'd destroy him.

. * * * .


	159. - cold and -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/2/15_. I legitimately have another snow day. This is the third one in two weeks! No one else is home because they all had to go to work, and I've already done all my homework for the next day or so... which means that I have a whole day to write. :) 
> 
> Here's two chapters to start! I'm not having these ones beta'd because they're super quick, so if you see anything that seems amiss, please let me know! (LOVE YOU ALISON AND ABBY, PLEASE ENJOY THIS BREAK. <3 <3)

. * * * .

 _\- cold and -  
_          _(dark)_  
. * * * .

 **Days Until Christmas Eve:** 11 **  
Days Until Winter Solstice:** 9

  
"He was in Burgess."

Jack didn't bother to look up. He knew what he'd find: Tooth's nearly palpable stare, fresh with well-founded concern; Sandy's pensive and silent gaze, offering wordless support; North's patience, stretched out in endless streams laid clear upon the floor; Bunny's almost-glare, cloudy eyes and uncertain terms, and—

“Jamie's not even there anymore,” Jack answered calmly, because _someone_ had to. “He moved to Seattle or somewhere. Someplace with cattle, or the sea. Or both. I don't know why they call it that."

“Jack,” called Tooth, softly.

Nobody was biting at his joke.

But that was okay—he wasn't really expecting them to.

“You guys, that generation is gone now,” he continued, because their stares were starting to make his skin itch. “Even Sophie's almost done with college, and mom's thinking of moving down to Florida, like Bunny said.” And he still couldn't explain it, why it irked him that Bunny still knew so much more about Burgess than Jack did. (It used to be _his_ , didn't it?) But whose fault was that?

Oh. That's right.

His.

“We'll keep watch,” said North, apparently taking his cue from Jack's dismissive tone. ( _Ouch_ , Jack thought, for no reason at all.) “There is no point in kicking up dirt if we don't have the tools to dig.”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Bunny.

Jack hesitated, snapping his head towards Bunny's. “You think he's actually doing something there?” he leaned forward, because—because if _Bunny_ actually thought there was a reason to investigate—

“Returnin' to the scene of the crime?” he scoffed, aged and bitter. “Waxin' nostalgic in a waxing moon... Bloody creep always did have a penchant for the morbidly poetic.”

Jack's face remained carefully blank.

( _We don't have to be alone, Jack._  
  
 _What goes together better_  
 _than cold_  
  
 _and_  
 _dark?_ )

“So what does it mean?” asked Jack, crossing his arms.  
  
Bunny shrugged. “I don't know. But I don't like it.”

. * * * .

 


	160. - afternoon greeting -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/2/15_.

 

. * * * .

_\- afternoon greeting -_

. * * * .

 **Days Until Christmas Eve:** 8  
 **Days Until Winter Solstice: 6**

  
Jack slipped forward, floating himself high on a path of air all the way across the room. Elsa smiled as she set down her quill and closed her journal, obviously quite done for now. His fingers twitched in mid-air, sparking with memory and easy anticipation. Jack could have walked toward the desk just as easily, like he used to, but this was so much faster—

“Hello,” Elsa whispered, face turned upwards, and Jack's heart quickened in his chest. Was he already smiling? He couldn't feel his face.

Jack inched closer, gaze on her inviting smile, and hovered just above it, his body sprawled out behind him on an invisible shelf of air. “Good morning,” he whispered back, and he _was_ smiling, just a little. He had a feeling.

“Morning?” Elsa quipped, tilting her head in a rather welcoming way. Jack's eyes flicked over her face, and he almost didn't catch her next words, so enchanted was he was with the tilt of her lips. “It's well past noon,” she informed him, amused.

“Not in Monterey,” he answered, though it came out a near-breath, leaning just the smallest fraction forward, and Elsa had gone very, very still.

“You know... that I don't... know where that...”

The soft touch of his lips to hers was now as familiar as it was foreign; a gentle press, a warm rush of feeling, a moment of true affection, the expanding tightness in his chest, and all the _simple_ and _complicated_ therein. Jack's lips parted, just slightly, but it was enough to catch her sweet sigh, soft against his tongue.

The soles of his feet set softly upon the floor, but he wouldn't be grounded for long. Jack found Elsa's face in both of his hands, and then she was rising with him, stumbling with him and laughing as they fumbled their way to the bed, feet still firmly on the ground, because, in the deepest parts of his heart, where things that he didn't even share with Elsa lay, this was the part where Jack liked to pretend ridiculous things. ( _He was a handsome servant in the castle who'd caught the Princess' eye, and if serving tea always took just a fraction too long, then none would be the wiser._ ) ( _He was a Prince, and she, without a chaperone, slipped off to discuss political matters in further detail—and if they just happened to be more comfortable conferring on the bed, then—_ ) But then Elsa's small back settled comfortably into the mattress, and the silly illusions were broken, because this life, for all its suffering, had its perks.

Jack floated just barely above where Elsa lay, reveling in the soft protests she made when at last they parted, and Jack liked to hear them, he liked to hear them just as much as he liked to allay them, just as much as like having been the one to invoke them. The thing about defying gravity was that it meant not having to worry about impractical things like supporting one's weight, which also meant having both hands free. Jack appreciated this greatly. He was pretty sure Elsa did, too.

Somewhere between the desk and the first bedpost, the kiss had deepened into a playful battle, nipping and sucking and tonguing between laughs, and Elsa's fingernails were raking through his hair. The feeling was nothing short of miraculous, even after so many days of getting used to the familiarity of Elsa's hands all over him.

Well. Maybe not _all_ over.

Jack Frost yelped, just a little, when Elsa nipped at his jaw—apparently he'd gotten a bit more distracted than he thought. He turned amused, surprised eyes on hers, an inquisitive set to his brow. Elsa stared back at him meaningfully, challenge written all over her beautiful face, and Jack could feel himself slipping, feel himself sliding further and deeper into dangerous territory when Elsa jutted her chin with purpose, asking with her open mouth and broken sighs, and Jack, who was nothing if not eager to please, obliged immediately.

His mouth was swollen, some half or so hour later, and Elsa's was too, a delicious flush along her skin. He was lying beside her now, upper half-on and lower half-off—careful not to be too obvious about exactly _what_ kind of effect she had on him—and it was comfortable. It was everything. One of his elbows dug sharply into the mattress near her arm, and the other rested gingerly on her other shoulder, playing with the loose strands of her hair. Her hands rested gently near her face, on her stomach, in his hair, on his face—and as their afternoon greeting slowed and cooled, Jack made good work of kissing patterns along the the rush of heat on her neck, and good god, why did she always wear such high collars?

Jack Frost knew.

( _But maybe the servant or the Prince didn't.  
Maybe there wasn't any good reason at all._ )

Fuck that.

There wasn't a good reason, anyway.

“Jack?” Elsa called, sensing his darkening mood. The hair at his temple was pushed carefully out his eyes, and Jack's whole chest caved at the feeling, that one simple act of touch and trust and genuine care. His eyes flicked to hers—with apology, with reverence, with something too deeply entrenched in his soul to name.

He raised a hand to do the same—to share at least one ounce of what he felt, with her; to try to return the favor—and when Elsa caught his hand and gently placed a soft and purposeful kiss to the inside of his wrist, his cheek fell to her shoulder, completely and utterly spent.

“We could just rest here for a while,” Elsa offered gently, fingers slipping through his hair. Jack felt like he could breathe more easily here than he could in all of his three hundred-some years, in all of his endless open spaces and white skies, in all of his time and trials and effort.

“You don't want to play a game?” he asked groggily, because even if he never wanted to ever move from this spot, he was still Jack Frost. He had a reputation to keep. Or something.

“I might be able to think of a few,” she answered, with the tiniest hint of a smirk in her voice and, bemused, Jack looked up.

And proceeded to watch with widened eyes as a graceful Princess casually leaned forward and purposefully nipped his nose.

Jack blinked, then grinned, uncontrollably. “I thought I was supposed to do that?”

“Be my guest,” she playfully shrugged. “I've heard that a mysterious, all-playful winter sprite will do that sometimes, you know. I haven't yet met that devious master myself, but I'm sure—”

Okay.

So maybe they weren't done with their afternoon greeting, _just_ yet.

. * * * .


	161. - losing teeth -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/3/15_. I am now going on my fourth snow day in two weeks. What does that mean? Two more chapters for today. ;)

               

 

. * * * .

_\- losing teeth -_

. * * * .

 **Days Until Christmas:** 7  
 **Days Until Winter Solstice:** 5

Jack was in a bit of a predicament.

Well, he was technically trapped within at least thirty separate predicaments, all with their own set of complete and utter complicated disasters, but his most recent one was currently staring him in the face.

“Sorry,” said Tooth, with a laugh that wasn't quite a laugh at all. “I'm afraid I haven't been all that... _polite_ , lately.”

 _Polite_ didn't exactly cover it, but Jack Frost wasn't about to judge. Toothiana's quick fix for storing the teeth had been a grand enough idea, at first, but kids were losing teeth faster than she could keep up with. Not only did she have to finish the transportation of all of the old Memories to the new quarters, but she also had to find more space for the newer ones too. It meant that her stress levels were reaching worrying levels of intensity and, subsequently, Jack's guilt was reaching shamefully high levels of _wow, I'm an asshole_.

He should be doing more to help her.

And he tried, but: one, he barely knew what to do—save for the day-to-day laugh, or joke, or some cheerful quip that was (usually) bound to make her smile, and two, Jack had responsibilities of his own to take care of, too. The last thing he was going to do was slack off on his own shit, and give Mother Nature a reason to finally take notice. No thanks.

(There was, of course, another reason.)

One that Jack Frost had sworn to himself never to tell the others... one reason with blonde hair and blue eyes and ice and magic in her thrumming-hot veins, who lived and breathed and and Believed, who was slowly reaching her Turning Point.

(He could _feel_ it coming.)

One morning, he'd passed from his world to hers, and it had struck through him, a sensation too intangible to be mere intuition, too physical to be just another gut-feeling. Magic? Maybe. But Jack was learning not to try too hard to explain everything these days... some things just couldn't be captured and _this_ —this was one of them.

He didn't know the specifics. ( _When? How? Why?_ ) But Jack had a feeling that he wasn't supposed to. He just needed to be there. Around. In the right place, at the right time.

And for once, he was.

. * * * .


	162. - a Dream -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/3/15_. ;)

 

. * * * .

_\- a Dream -_

. * * * .

 

 **Days Until Christmas:** 3  
 **Days Until the Winter Solstice:** 1

 

“I have a question,” he announced, but he wouldn't look at her, even now.

Elsa shifted where she sat upon the rug, and the ends of her skirts slipped through his fingers. He watched the fabric fall away to the floor, and in its absence, became increasingly aware of the crackling fire in her hearth.

“Oh?”

The scritch-scratch of her quill was a comforting sound, for more reasons than one. Elsa diligently trailed her quill along the page, and Jack really shouldn't have been bothering her mid-entry, he really shouldn't have, but, “What were you _really_ suggesting?”

Elsa paused. Jack hadn't realized that he'd even looked up at her until she looked down, quizzically, and by then it was already too late.

“Suggesting?”

Well, then.

Now or never.

“I've been thinking about what you said to me,” he began, and then dropped his eyes to the hem of her dress, like the coward he was, and began to play with the seam. No loose threads. Incredible. Wait. He couldn't get distracted— “About what you said to me that night,” he clarified, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Which night?”

Jack paused. “ _That_ night,” he answered, glancing upwards. Recognition bloomed in her eyes, catching the firelight, and Jack surged forward, lest he lose his nerve, or his _focus—_ “In the moment, I couldn't see any other explanation—but is that actually what you were suggesting?” Why was his voice rising so _high_? “Or was I making it up in my head?”

“You mean when I suggested that we try something new?”

Fuck.

He was already blushing.

Which meant that he wasn't really sure if it it was better (or worse) when Elsa gently set her journal aside and lay down beside him near the fire, propping her head with elbow and hand in much the same manner as he was, and smirked.

“You're smirking,” he pointed out, voice dry as the fucking Sahara.

Her lips softened into a smile, but the playfulness did not leave her eyes. Jack's stomach warmed.

“I'll admit that it was not the fairest approach,” she spoke quietly, lowering thoughtful eyes to the patterns on the rug. Jack watched her whole face, every stray glow of firelight and fluttering lash, every tiny, near-invisible freckle. “It wasn't intended as the cold, methodical proposal it turned out to be,” she confessed, catching Jack completely off-guard, “but it was the best angle I could find.”

“Angle?” Jack echoed, sounding like he'd been strangled, slightly. A new flush rose over Elsa's cheeks, catching Jack's attention quickly; it was still a rare sight, and he certainly didn't mind it.

“It's just,” Elsa haltingly began, dragging a fingertip along the stiffness of the rug. Jack swallowed. “I knew what I wanted, and I... was certain that you wanted it, too. But I knew that you had reservations—and I had them too, but I don't suspect as many, or for as long—and I knew that if anything was ever going to happen, that I'd need to be clever. I thought for a long time about how to best initiate the conversation, at least, but... nothing seemed right. Or strong enough, for you to argue against. And then—I realized.”

“What?”

“I realized... I don't know. It sound so ridiculous now. Goodness. Oh, whatever, I shouldn't care—”

“ _Whatever_? Who on earth could you have picked up that little term from?”

“It's like you said,” Elsa said, with decision, and Jack held the quip on his tongue. “The only... the thing you've ever... I mean, what _truly_ motivates you—is me. Or rather—my benefit. I... I thought that if I wanted... to _progress_ things further, I needed you to let go of your concerns long enough to see that... I don't know. My mind was such a mess, then.”

“ _You_ were a mess,” he repeated, like it was laughable. “At least you had a plan. Or composure.”

“Both of which mattered very little in the grand scheme of things.”

“Which you also schemed,” he reminded her, playfully leaning in close. He got as far as their noses, brushing at the tips, before— “What's wrong?”

She lifted a shoulder in a hapless shrug, and his body went still. In a deceptively casual voice, she said, “I knew what you would say... if I asked you outright.”

Jack let that soak in. A very pressing question suddenly took hold at the forefront of his mind.

“Elsa... how long had you been meaning to ask me?” he whispered, finding it very hard to breathe.

Elsa's smile was wry and amused, but her eyes found the ceiling before they found his; a signal, Jack recalled with alarm, that she was trying not to cry.

His hand found her waist, and his chin found her crown, and then he was kissing her face, all over, until she was pushing away at him in laughter, until he'd kissed each eyelid at least twice, until she gave up and started kissing him back.

“It's possible that it started even earlier than I remember,” Elsa whispered later, so lost in time and Memory that Jack could barely hear her at all. “In fact—I'm sure it did. But the first clear Memory I have is a dream.”

Jack's eyes roved over her face, resting in the silence. A Dream?

( _Not a Nightmare?_ )

“When?” Jack breathed, shifting closer— _as if he could inhale the very words out of her mouth_ —because he was curious, and intrigued, and greedy.

Elsa's eyes darted up, catching his, and the overwhelming sense of contentment was back, the sharp playfulness and the thrilling softness all at once, the return to a sense of normalcy that Jack hadn't even realized until this moment that he'd been missing. Elsa.

“You're going to laugh,” she whispered, smiling, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes. The self-consciousness underlying her calm; he wanted to snatch it out of the air and stuff it down a hole.

“I _won't,_ ” he assured her.

In return, he was met with a deadpan in its purest form. _Ow_ —his pride.

Jack frowned, severely... then relented. “Okay,” he conceded, reluctantly. “So I can't promise that I _won't_ , but I promise that it'll be a nice laugh. A happy laugh. A _shared_ laugh.”

Slyly, her royal highness dipped her head and cheerfully reminded him, “Your promises have very little ground on which to stand, Jack Frost.”

Jack frowned, with meaning.

“Oh, all right,” _Elsa_ laughed, and Jack held out—simply on a matter of principle. She pulled him close and Jack gave in— _lost the battle before it'd begun, really_ —and was thus completely not expecting it, when she whispered into his cheek, “I dreamt of you the night of my ball.”

Floored.

“The ball?” Jack repeated, searching for the Memory in his mind. Sitting high in the banisters, kicking his feet through the air. Playing with the frost on the windows. Watching Elsa dance.

With Henrik.

“I'd... experienced feelings even before that,” Elsa confessed, and Jack struggled to listen closely. “Things I didn't yet understand. But the ball overtook my every waking moment, and I didn't have time to consider much of anything else... And then—so much happened that night—”

“You stood up to your parents,” Jack remembered, chest swelling with pride. _You asked to see Anna_ , he wanted to say, but didn't know if he should—Elsa hadn't mentioned her sister in a very long time. “You... held my hand.”

Elsa pressed a single kiss to his forehead, as if to punctuate the thought. (A period was too abrupt, in Jack's opinion. Why not one of those ellipses things Elsa was always raving on about? Three dots—three kisses. _Dot, dot, dot..._ )

“You played with my hair,” she recalled with a smile, settling back onto the floor. Jack was suspiciously sleepy all of a sudden, and yet, at the same time, had no desire for sleep at all.

“The first time of many,” he quipped, and slipped his fingers through the loosening hair at her ear, for emphasis. “I still can't believe you let me braid it.”

“You didn't do so bad,” Elsa whispered smilingly. “And you braided it for me again, a few times after that.”

“Did I? I must have erased them from my Memory.”

“Liar,” she accused, with a kiss. (Much better. This one was at _least_ an ellipsis.) “You made me laugh all night,” Elsa pulled away, whispering against his mouth. “With your ridiculous comments, and your silly pranks... I could hardly appreciate my guests with any sort of fullness because I was always far more interested in you.”

There was something very strange going on inside his stomach. He felt like he was going to throw up, or sink through the floor, or float way up into the air. _Pride_ was too weak a word and _ego_ was too strong; just a small helping of satisfaction, petty or otherwise, filling him up with something new.

He remembered playing with her hair—all of it, long about her shoulders, like waves of light. He remembered thinking that— _of light_. He remembered her nearly falling apart in the foyer, while hundreds of people waited inside, and the crippling fear that rushed down his spine with each and every step, the same strike of _what am I doing, what should I do, what does this mean—?_ And the immense feeling, afterwards, of sitting high on the prospect of change, overlooking the party without ever truly being a part of it, and feeling his chest go tight with pride and dread and happiness as Elsa spun about the floor. As he watched Elsa dance.

“What about Henrik?” he blurted.

A sable brow arched high, surprised. “What _about_ Henrik?”

“But he—you were—he was all...” Jack didn't even know what he was talking about, actually. “You were... really into him.”

Her face scrunched, adorably, and it was almost enough to make him forget this whole train-wreck of a conversation. Almost.

“ _Into_ him _?_ ”

“Enamored. Smitten. Infatuated. Fancied? Besotted.”

“Jack, do you even know what the word besotted means?”

“ _Hey,_ ” he poked her, and Elsa let out a most undignified, un-Princess-like giggle, one that had him smiling like an idiot, and dammit—this was not helping his cause, here. “Don't try to wrangle out of this subject with a weak jab at vocabulary.”

“Right, right—yes, you're right, I'm sorry,” she laughed, in between pokes. And kisses. Lot of kisses. Dammit.

“I'm not kidding though,” he reiterated, because this was serious. (This was _important_.) “You liked him a lot.”

Sensing that this wouldn't soon be joked away, Elsa slowly rolled onto her back, pulling Jack over her. He liked the way she looked— _underneath him—_ playing with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt, staring up at him like she'd never found anything more real.

His heart hurt.

“I did find him charming,” Elsa began, and the moment was ruined, the warmth shattering like shards of glass on a stone-cold floor, “In a rather genuine- and business-like way... because going to a ball is a bit like a game of chess.”

“Yeah,” Jack muttered, biting his tongue. “I remember.”

Elsa smacked his shoulder. Brow raised high, Jack smacked her back. He was prepared for an inevitable play-fight—already eyeing the pillows at the far window, ready for this god-awful conversation to be over—but Elsa's hand found his collar and, more importantly, the skin beneath it.

Rational thought went all but flying out of his head. And Elsa seized the chance, took the opportunity to say, “I was browsing for allies... along with completing many other tasks, not the least of which included trying to avoid a total breakdown and potentially turning all of my home and loved ones into lovely ice-sculptures.”

Jack Frost winced. _Jesus_. “You really don't pull your punches, do you?”

She actually smiled. “If I ever actually throw a punch, I'll be sure to let you know.” _Deviously_. “Care to try it?”

He kissed her instead. “Maybe later,” he whispered, cold against her mouth.

“You are distracting me,” she accused with a gasp, breaking away some minutes later. Jack only grinned, and lowered his head once more. “No! Not yet. I need to explain this to you.”

“Ugh,” Jack groaned. He was beginning to regret having ever brought it up. “Can we _please_ not talk about Henrik anymore?”

Did she just flick his head? Did Princesses do that?

And then, just like that, he was on his back.

“Whoah—” he said, feeling wildly inarticulate. “Did you just—?”

“Jack, listen to me,” and he did, because he didn't like the tone of her voice—the quiet urgency, the subdued apology she had no need, no reason, to offer. “I won't discuss it at length,” she promised, “Not only because you'd rather not dwell on it, but also—because—I'd truthfully rather not dwell on it either.”

And there it was.

Jack reached forward, wrapping his hand around hers, pulling her closer—but not so close so that he couldn't see her face. (Was she cold? Was the fire warm enough? She always said that it didn't bother her, but he couldn't be sure—)

“I won't make predictions about what my future holds,” Elsa declared, with hands as steady as her gaze. “Marital, or otherwise. Everything that needs to be said about Prince Henrik and his potential for Arendelle has already been said, and you've seen firsthand how that potential has impacted me, and all that I have to offer my kingdom as future-Queen.”

Jack's jaw tightened, twitching with the strength of one painful swallow. Elsa's hand moved within his, twisting and twining her fingers through long, cold ones. They splayed over his chest, feeling his heart beat.

“Anyway,” Elsa said suddenly, with a swallow that looked suspiciously forced. Jack continued to stare up at her, lost and found, with limbs like lead and jelly. “I wanted to share that with you. That the night of my ball, when you stayed with me and held my hands as I fell asleep... I dreamed of you. I'd had dreams with you before, but—these were different.”

 _How different?_ Jack wanted to ask, mostly because he already had a feeling, but also because he wanted to hear it, straight from her mouth. ( _Because he wanted to see how the answer tasted, afterwards._ )

“And you?” she asked.

“Sorry?” Jack blinked.

“And the first time you...?”

“You mean the first time I thought of you...” _This way?_ “Or the first time I let myself?” he asked, tracing the elegant ridges of her cheekbone. “Because they are two very different things,” he revealed solemnly, smoothing the gentle arch of one worried eyebrow, and smiled in spite of himself. “To be honest, I'm not entirely sure I have a real answer for either of them.”

Elsa considered that for a moment, and let him touch her face. Was she disappointed? It _did_ feel a bit like cheating—like it was unfair that she could give him an exact moment, a particular _night,_ whereas Jack could think of nothing. Or rather— _everything_. There were too many Memories to sort through, and so many of them were laced with self-loathing, and restraint... His acknowledgement had been so gradual—so _painful—_ and coming to acceptance had technically been shorter, but filled with far more suffering, and then everything changed again, in the blink of an eye.

And Elsa's Memory had always been stronger, anyway.

“Elsa,” Jack said suddenly, as a startling realization occurred to him. She was playing with his hood, and brushing her knuckles over his lips— _it was a powerful feeling, one that he treasured, one that she knew he liked_ —but Jack was determined, and even as his eyes grew heavy-lidded, as heat pooled in his gut, he looked up at Elsa and said, “You just... you just told me about one of your dreams.” She looked down at him with confusion, and maybe a bit of amusement. She didn't understand.

How much this meant to him.

“You...” His voice cracked, just a little. “Haven't done that in years.”

Elsa looked confused. “Haven't I?” she whispered. Jack mutely shook his head.

Her mouth opened, but the look on his face must have given her pause, for nothing at all would come out. Elsa lowered herself down to meet his gaze, to bring her face closer to his, searching for something. Jack held still, and let her look, and thrummed with the urge to kiss her.

At last, Elsa tilted her head to the side, thoughtful and fox-like, and meaningfully whispered, “It's not the only dream I've had of you.”

His cock, already half-hard and achingly close to her thigh, sent a twitch coursing through his whole body, and his head digging back into the hardness of the floor. She was still hovering over him, leaning her warm chest against his, and Jack was suddenly biting back a groan as she watched his face, clearly looking for something. His dick was already painfully tight against his pants, rapidly overtaking his awareness, and Jack took a deep, bracing breath to calm himself.

( _Remembered, in a sudden blight of awareness, that—_

— _they'd never done this, any of this, before._ )

“Would you like to hear more about them?” she whispered, against his lips, and his tongue darted out before he could stop it, dragging along the sharp little ridge of a neat row of teeth. Elsa's little moan of surprise filled his mouth, and a sharp exhale cut from his throat, tinged with some deep sound he had never heard himself make before. His hands were on her neck—her collar—pulling the high-reaching fabric aside, placing his open palm there with every intention of following his touch with a kiss— _in that very spot, one of his favorites_ —but first her mouth, with every ounce of his attention—except for all the parts that were focused on her hands, or her breasts against his chest, or her legs slipping and tangling through his, or the sounds or the sighs and the little breaths she made, or the sharp stab of pleasure-pain and _almost-_ too-much-sensation of Elsa's warm hip accidentally grazing his cock and the broken sound that followed. Just the rawness of her mouth, and her heat, and the recurring realization that _she wants you too_ and that, that moment right there, that heady moment in which Jack was prepared to throw _all_ caution to the wind, that was the moment he received his next Summons.

. * * * .

 

 


	163. - compromising position -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/15/15_. Happy Belated Valentine's Day! (I actually wrote a bit of a Valentine's thing, too! Remember that random college!AU one-shot that I ended up writing a random holiday!sequel for? Well, I ended up writing a Valentine's-esque continuation. You can read it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3330815)! Heads up: it's gone beyond the land of Mature, and is rated Explicit. If you've already read the first two parts, then Happy Valentine's Smut!)
> 
> UM ALSO EXCUSE ME HAVE YOU SEEN [THIS](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/110952833497/frozenblume-he-sought-her-mouth-with-his-own-open) GORGEOUS FANART BY **[frozenblume](http://frozenblume.tumblr.com)** (of course you have, it's gorgeous), but JUST IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T, GO LOOK AT IT. Go look at it again. Always. And forever. You will probably recognize the scene... unless you are crying tears of love and can no longer see your computer screen, like moi.
> 
> As for this next chapter: thank you, **ALISON** , for beta-ing! Also... this story is not based in graphic gore, but it is rated Mature. Some of those themes may include brief descriptions or slight mentions of a more adult nature, including violence and other kinds of tragedy. Thus:
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings:** blood.

 

. * * * .

_\- compromising position -_

. * * * .

 **Days Until Christmas:** 3  
 **Days Until the Winter Solstice:** 1

 

“Do you think it’s a mistake?” Elsa whispered, not looking at him. “What we’re doing?”

Jack’s hands stilled over his stomach, mid-pat down the crumpled fabric of his sweatshirt. He’d just finished straightening himself out, barely, when Elsa’s sudden reflection brought his harried mind to a screeching halt.

“Do you?” he asked.

She was silent.

“Look at me,” he urged, coming to kneel at her feet. Elsa stared down at him from her seat on the bed, listless. He was left speechless for a moment, seized by a flash of panic, then shook it aside with little thought. “I’m not gonna go back on this,” he vowed. “I made a decision, and whether or not the rest of the world really thinks it was the right one, I don’t care.”

“But do _you_ think it’s...?”

Her words were swallowed by a kiss, long and tender, and when he pulled away to let her breathe, he quite cheerfully laughed in her face.

“You’re not worried about the others suspecting?” she asked him curiously, between kisses, because Jack was not yet done.

“This isn’t—exactly—the first time I’ve—shown up—to a Guardian meeting—in a—comprising position.”

There was a _thwack_ to his shoulder that Jack felt was both very much deserved and riddled with grateful amusement.

“Have you no shame?” she whispered onto his lips, close enough for him to taste her smile.

Jack’s stomach clenched, just briefly, but he shoved the feeling aside. Smirked into the kiss, “Apparently not.”

A few minutes more of distraction, and then Jack felt the undeniable tug from afar, the undertow of a familiar summons. An important one, too.

“I’ll be back later,” he assured her, and kissed her once more.

Because he could.

. * * * .  
  


Racing along the wind toward the North Pole, a few things became clear to Jack Frost in gradual succession. First and foremost: no matter how strongly felt about Elsa, he wouldn't have reallylet himself lose his head.

Not like _that_ , anyway.

He may have been a reckless fool in general, and he may have finally allowed himself to indulge in whatever it was between them, to consider that it had always been inevitable, but he wasn't about to just fly into something like… _intimacy_. They hadn't even talked about this. Not that Jack intended to.

( _Yet_.)

( _Ever?_ )

Secondly, this was not the appropriate kind of moral dilemma to be considering on the commute to a Guardians of Childhood meeting.

So.

. * * * .

 

When Jack arrived, Sandy was waiting patiently by the Moonstone. He’d made himself a cup of nice sand-tea, or so Jack could only assume, and North and Tooth were still upstairs, or something. Who knew. With just three days left until Christmas, North could have been doing practically anything.

Jack stood by Sandy in companionable silence, thinking, which eventually gave way to workshop-watching. The elves were _frantic_ ; the yetis, although hulking and scurrying with uncharacteristic grace, were operating like a well-oiled machine. For some unfathomable reason, it was _Bunnymund_ who showed up (last) to the meeting in the least pleasant of moods.

Jack, in his thoughtful daze, didn’t manage to dodge the sudden dip in earth of a freshly-carved rabbit-hole arrival; the unfortunate result was a brief tumbling of fur and fabric, and some two dozen shards of ice. Sandy had delicately sidestepped the mess.

" _Watch_ it, Tiger,” Bunny snapped as he pulled himself up from the abyss, scowling.

Jack stopped scrambling long enough to realize that he could simply float himself out, which he did. He brushed himself off with a quick flick of the wrist and an annoyed slant to his eye. “"Tiger?" Jack Frost looked up, affronted.

Bunny smiled wryly, letting the ground close together again. A single daisy sprouted in the middle of Santa Claus’ workshop.

"Or,” Bunny suggested magnanimously, “we could let _you_ try on Kangaroo for a change?"

"No thanks."

Bunny almost looked disappointed. "What’s got your frost all up in a twist?” he demanded, which sounded suspiciously like a pout. “Kids not throwing snow balls like they used to?"

Jack slanted a sly look in the Pooka’s direction, but otherwise didn’t comment. He just really wasn’t in the mood to take Bunny’s bait.

He’d arrived at the North Pole, but the undertow hadn’t really gone away.

 _Do you feel it, too?_ Sandy asked cordially, sliding up to Jack’s side. Jack shifted his gaze down towards the Sandman, and briefly considered playing dumb.

The feeling made him anxious, and he didn’t know why.

Just as swiftly, Bunny stilled beside him as well. Jack hesitated, thinking that perhaps he might have imagined it, but then came the sharp, unmistakable _“fuck_ ,” and Jack knew that Bunnymund felt it too.

It was growing.

“Where’s North?” Jack called to the nearby elves, swaying as a sudden lurch gave way in his stomach. Sandy looked distinctly uneasy, and Bunny’s scowl had deepened.

“Something’s wrong,” Bunny nodded decisively to the upper floors, then leapt with alarming speed towards the balconies upon the highest tiers, leaving Jack and Sandy to fly in his wake. Sandy’s silence pressed with unspoken determination, with knowledge, and the Jack felt his inexperienced years all the more keenly in comparison; knowing that the others could feel this too—that they could _read_ it, while he could not—left him disoriented, and slow.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bunny repeated, and hastened, quickening his pace to a speed that even left Jack’s gut churning sharply, hurtling towards the door to North’s private workroom—

Which was where they found the two of them, huddled together in the center of the room. North.

And Tooth, with blood on her hands.

. * * * .

 


	164. - the longest -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/15/15_. **Beta'd** by **ALISON**. 
> 
> **Trigger Warnings** : blood, references to suicide attempt.

  
. * * * .

  
\- _the longest_ -  
  
  
. * * * .  


 **Days Until Christmas:**  3  
 **Days Until the Winter Solstice:** 1

 

Monty, of Burgess.

Jack had never actually learned his last name.

“He was... always a very... self-conscious child,” Toothiana murmured, staring at her fingertips. By then, North had already cleaned the blood from her feathers long before, sleeves rolled back to the elbows, tattoos speckled with its crusted flakes; Tooth didn’t seem to notice.

"It was not difficult for Pitch to find his Memories," boomed North, low and deep. He smoothed the feathers back along her wrist. "And then further, to influence him."

Jack could not seem to swallow the rock that had wedged its way into his throat.

Bunny was tall at Tooth’s side, fretful and wrought with tension, arms crossed stiffly over his chest. Sandy hovered in the air like a gentle breeze, sand sifting quietly like an open field, but Jack wasn’t soothed in the slightest.

Memories flooded back. The Battle of Dreams. The herd of Nightmarlings stampeding the streets in waves of constant, endless Fear. The Black Sand. He felt sick. Wanted to hit something.

Had so many questions.

“How did… how did you know?” he whispered, staring at the floor.

Toothiana shuddered. Her hands curled, one set of knuckles at a time, like weaving invisible thread through her fingers. Bunny looked on, silent and grave.

“When… in times of…”

“The Guardians’ connections run deep,” Bunny took over for her, solemn and wise, without looking at anyone at all. “To all of the children, and especially to the Assignments… but there are children in between, ones who were never Assigned by the Moon, but have still taught us something important. Children who create special impacts on our senses.” Flicked his eyes meaningfully to Jack’s. “The generation of Burgess had many of them.”

Bunny’s large hand came to rest on Tooth’s delicate shoulder. Tooth leaned her temple into Bunny’s strong thigh.

And Jack thought, with a deep, sinking feeling in his gut, _Jamie_.

Jamie.

“Even after they pass the point of childhood, we may still be more attuned to their needs than others. In times of… great distress, our awareness may in fact catch something in these adults that we otherwise would never have been able to sense.”

“It is not uncommon,” Toothiana added tightly, drawing surprised, worried eyes from across the room. “For those who... seek to end their own lives… to call upon their Memories. I… for him, I couldn’t deny the call to… to...”

Jack tried to let that sink in.

“You… can sense when… ?”

He was gonna be sick.

Two cold hands raked through his hair, interlocking and lacing in chaotic weaves at the back of his skull. An itch scraped at his spine, an insistent _tick-tick-ticking_ that crawled along his neck. That whispered warnings in his ear.

This was no coincidence.

( _Swallowed the bile in his throat._  
 _Breathed in crisp, northern air,_  
 _and tasted acid_.)

“Where is he now?” rasped Jack, staring at the ceiling. Trying not to cry.

“He is... receiving medical treatment as we speak,” answered North, with a vagueness that set Jack’s nerves on edge.

“Treatment?” Jack echoed, as a hot, angry spark pain burst inside his chest. “What’s...?”

No one replied.

Jack turned away sharply, jaw clicking loudly as he swept towards the window. He was leaving frost _everywhere_.

He felt like Elsa.

“Jack,” said North, as Jack resisted the urge to vomit. ( _No. Elsa wasn't like this. She was better than this. In control_ —) “This is—”

“Is it because of _me_?” he asked, neither a whisper nor a shout. “Is this a message for me?”

“It ain’t your fault,” Bunny snapped, one half-step towards the trail of Jack’s distress. “This isn’t about you, mate. Burgess means something to _all_ of us.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Jack,” Tooth warned, eyes begging. “ _Don’t_.”

( _Don’t blame it_  
 _on_  
  
 _yourself_.)

 

A helpless breath escaped him, sharp and stubborn, and with a hiss Jack turned back to the window, glaring at the tundra beyond.

“Jack,” North repeated, with the kind of intent that signaled something important. North knew he was listening, even if Jack never once turned around; this kind of tension couldn’t lie. “The timing is not random.”

Jack huffed against the glass. Frost spirals exploded, marring his vision. “Of course it isn’t,” he muttered.

“Two of the worlds experience the Winter Solstice tonight,” continued North, lit with meaning. “By Mother Nature’s will, this is _the_ longest night; the darkness is not yet over.”

“We think we know where he’ll go next,” said Toothiana.

And really, that was all Jack needed.

. * * * .


	165. - the prize -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/27/15_. Drabble dump! I've got quite a few today. I may post all of them, or I may post half and save the rest for tomorrow. We shall see!
> 
> All of these were **beta'd** by the lovely **ALISON**. :)

 

_. * * * ._

_  
\- the (best) prize -_

_  
. * * * ._

 

Jamie was taller.

Jack sat back on the balls of his bare feet upon the worn and cracking shingles of the rooftop, light and strung and poised to spring. The staff was a familiar, comforting weight in his hand, a tool that had been just as much a part of him as any limb for well over three hundred years.

( _A passing flash of vision grazed over the Memory_  
 _of it snapping in two,_  
 _and Jack scowled_.)

The snow globe thrummed in his pocket insistently, but Jack wouldn’t answer.

“In a minute,” he whispered, eyes boring down onto the street below.

Jamie was probably just as tall as he was now, which was different. Things that were less different: Jack recognized the jeans and the boots, the heavy coat and the brown hair. The easy swing of his walk, the thoughtful press of his hands in his too-large pockets, the bright eyes, the tendency to pause at street corners and wonder.

In some ways, he looked like Jack.

( _Or, more accurately, who Jackson Overland might have been_.)

Jamie must have been, what—in his early twenties now? Recent college grad, young working professional. Jack wondered where he lived, where he worked, did he like his job and his life? Did he talk to his little sister often? His mom?

The snow globe in his pocket was growing restless, humming its whiny vibrations. Jack frowned, but reached inside, never once taking his eyes of Jamie.

“I’m here,” Jack said, because that was more polite than _What do you want?_

“REPORT,” boomed North, and Jack uselessly tried to muffle the distorted sound by cupping his palms over the glass. Whatever. There weren’t many kids in this part of town, anyway.

“He just left a friend’s apartment,” Jack answered, hopping to the next rooftop. “He’s heading toward his address.”

“NOTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY?”

Jack hesitated.

“Not from what I can tell.”

( _Not like I would know_.)

And then Jack was struck once more by the fleeting, harrowing thought that one of his first Believers almost died tonight, and realized with a shock of clarity that Jack had never witnessed the death of anyone close to him. Ever.

“JACK, ARE YOU LISTENING?”

He gave the globe a good shake, clutching it in his palm, but did not remove his eyes from the young man on the street.

“CLAUDE AND CALEB ARE CONFIRMED,” North repeated, clearly annoyed. “CUPCAKE IS IN SANDY’S RANGE. PIPPA HAS EMBARKED ON A BUS TOWARD THE HEALTHCARE FACILITY AS WE SPEAK. DOES JAMIE KNOW?”

Jack watched Jamie make way for other passersby on the sidewalk, even at the risk of leaning himself against the frozen banks of snow.

“JACK.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “He hasn’t touched his phone.”

“BUNNYMUND CLAIMS THAT PIPPA HAS BEEN TRYING TO REACH HIM. SHE WILL TRY SOPHIE NEXT.”

“Leave the phone to me,” Jack muttered, watching carefully as Jamie slowed his place to look up at the stars.

 _What does he see up there?_ Jack wondered. Did he have anyone else that he cared about? A girl—or a boy, maybe? Did stuff like that matter to him? How long had it been since he’d talked to any of the others? Had he known, like Pippa, that Monty was struggling? Did he still consider Burgess his home?

( _When, exactly, had his Belief run out?_ )

“DO NOT STAY TOO LONG,” North cautioned. “JAMIE IS THE LEAST LIKELY TO DRAW PITCH’S INFLUENCE. BOTH HIS HEAD AND HIS HEART ARE STRONG.”

“Wouldn’t that make him the best prize?” Jack countered, sliding down to the edge of the gutters. ( _Isn’t that what Pitch wants? To send a message?_

 _To me?_ )

“IN TIME, YES. BUT PITCH’S GAME IS ONLY JUST BEGINNING. HE SAVORS THE SUSPENSE.” Jack’s brows furrowed, and North’s voice hardened into an unmistakable command. “SECURE THE AREA, ENSURE HIS TELEPHONE COMMUNICATION, THEN REPORT TO BURGESS.”

Rankled—but only because _old habits die hard—_ Jack conceded. The snow globe dimmed without further comment, and Jack was once again left alone.

“You sure take your time,” he whispered, marveling as Jamie stopped at a storefront window to browse. At midnight. Jesus.

Taking a chance, Jack double-checked his invisibility and drifted to the ground, falling into step a few paces behind him. Kept one hand loose around his Shepherd’s staff. Watching.

Only once did Jamie pause and look behind him; Jamie had looked right through him before (both before and after The Battle of Dreams), but it still hurt, self-induced invisibility or no. Like a bitch.

Jamie paused, considering, and Jack briefly, tentatively let himself wonder: maybe, possibly, Jack could Hope. Maybe one day Jack would have the guts to remove his mask of invisibility, and see for himself if the lightless space on the globes were true, or terribly, terribly wrong. ( _Then maybe he could forget the day he looked up to find it, to see Jamie’s resilient light, only to realize that it was no longer there._ ) He’d drop the invisibility, and—somewhere, deep down—the residual traces of an endless, childish faith from ages ago could be stirred. The distant, deep cry of unshaken Belief, of trusting when no one else would. For a moment, Jack almost let himself believe it.

And then Jamie turned back around, and kept walking.

. * * * .

 


	166. - only inevitable -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/27/15_.

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( _“Pitch has already gone too far.”_

“ _He's only just begun.”_ )

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. * * * .

_\- only inevitable -_

. * * * .

**Christmas Eve  
  
**

The night was bright and the air was full of festive song, but Christmas Eve found Jack searching for explanations.

( _Excuses._ )

“He's really sorry,” he said again, hoping that she would understand. “It's just—there's so much going on, and—you know he cares about you, and—”

“Jack,” she soothed, laughing at his poorly-concealed distress. “It's all right. I have received many visits from St. Nicholas... quite more than my fair share, I presume.” She eyed him speculatively, like _he_ had something to do with that, and so what if he did—a little bit? “I don't fault him, and I wish you wouldn't, either. He is a very busy man.”

Jack's lips quirked downward at that. _Man_ , eh?

In the space of a single huff, Jack realized how ridiculous he was being. It sounded like he was laughing at himself, probably because he was, and when he next looked up at Elsa— _bright smiles and moonlight and star-shine_ —it was already forgotten.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, letting the decision wash over the room. He felt more relaxed already. “All right.”

Jack and Elsa spent the evening according to their usual traditions: eating chocolate, lounging by the fire, reading, playing chess, and dancing. Jack did his patrols, and a little extra, and then returned with time to spare. They drank hot tea left by a cheerful Olga, stayed up well into the early morning hours, and played with their own personal snow flurries.

But they created new traditions, too. They kissed and laughed under mistletoe and blankets, and curled around one another before the hearth. They held hands without hesitation and rested temples upon shoulders, and pressed kisses to each other's brows and eyelids. They rested peacefully, and played unapologetically, and laughed easily. They hung their stockings at the foot of her bed in the name of tradition and the holiday spirit, even with the knowledge that they would remain empty. They watched the dark sky for the bells of a sleigh, even if its driver could not stop in to say, _hello._

For the first time in many, many years, they celebrated Christmas without Santa Claus.

And it was okay.

. * * * .

And it was still okay, if not unnaturally subdued, when Jack returned to the North Pole the following day.

“Well, Bunny,” said North, fatigued but strong, his voice still resonating through the halls, even if it did not carry its usual boom. “I suppose you got your Christmas **catastrophe** , after all.”

Bunny, to his credit, did not look very pleased with the result.

. * * * .

 

**The New Year**

  
They were on the roof again.

Arendelle of course did not celebrate the coming of a New Year the same way that Jack knew they did in places like London or New York or Tokyo—they even marked it by a different day, according to their calendar—but Jack still liked to tell Elsa about the fireworks and the giant ball of light dropping in Times Square, even if she thought the whole thing was farfetched.

( _“A ball of light dropping from the sky? Do you mean the Moon?”_

“ _Er. No... it's called_ electricity _. I didn't really get it at first, either, but—”_ )

So instead they gazed up at what little of the Moon they could see, curled closely around one another beneath a thick blanket that neither of them truly needed. He spent a lot of that time thinking about the Believers of Burgess, and where they were at that moment, and what they were thinking about. He hadn't seen Jamie since the Winter Solstice—since he'd seen him off to the bus terminal the following morning—but he intended to go back soon, and Toothiana had told him that Monty was doing... all right. But the Believers of Burgess weren't kids anymore, weren't Believers, and the Guardians' magic wasn't made for that kind of protection. He was very lucky, Tooth had said.

( _“You know... there's another tradition in my world about the New Year. About bringing good luck.”_

“ _Oh? Well, from the suggestiveness in your tone, and your lips near my ear, I can only imagine what kind of tradition. Dare I ask?”_

“ _Elsa, it's_ fun _to guess.”_

“ _Indeed.”_

“ _Oh, fine. I love a good spoiler, anyway.”_

“ _A what?”_

“ _There's a story about it originating from somewhere, but I don't remember it. Something about bad spirits or something, probably, the way most superstitions are.”_

“ _This is a superstition?”_

“ _And a tradition. I guess sometimes they're both. Anyway, at the stroke of midnight, to ensure that you have a good year, you kiss the person next to you.”_

“ _It's a sweet sentiment, even if it's completely unfounded.”_

“ _Hey. You think kissing more people would bring you better luck?”_

“ _Very funny, Frost.”_

“ _Come on. That was a little funny.”_

“ _I'm sure I could summon Olga, if you wish to test the theory.”_

“ _Hey! Poor, sweet Olga—I'm sure we would have gotten along swimmingly_ _if she were a few decades younger, and I weren't, you know. Invisible. Okay, this is decidedly becoming less funny.”_

“ _Should I be the one to test your theory, instead? For the sake of research.”_

“ _Okay, that is_ really _not funny.”_

“ _Except that it is, in a very sad, unfunny way.”_

“ _This is a terrible conversation. I am going to sit here and put my chin on your shoulder and pretend it never happened.”_

“ _Except it begs a rather interesting question, doesn't it? Conversely, what if you have no one to kiss?”_

“ _Hm._ _Probably explains why I had so many shitty years.”_

“ _Jack! Don't say that! You're absurd. Honestly, luck and good fortune isn't dependent on things like kissing_. _”_ )

But at midnight, she kissed him anyway, and he loved her for it.

. * * * . 

 

**January**

   
Eventually, Jack Frost began to wonder how the King would feel about a maybe-seventeen-year-old boy hanging out in his eldest daughter's room all the time. Invisible or metaphysical, or not.

About the invisibility thing: in the earlier years, it hadn't _exactly_ bothered him that others couldn't see him when he was with Elsa. It was more fun to make Elsa laugh with comments they couldn't hear, or to make faces right to their blind faces, and more often than not, it was convenient. Even during the years in which they rarely left Elsa's room.

He never imagined he'd resent not being able to ask the King for his daughter's hand in marriage.

But Jack buried that seed of resentment down, where the rest of his darkness was hidden, and remembered that he _was_ , in fact, happy.

. * * * .

With Elsa's birthday practically on the morrow, talk of Anna's birthday was only inevitable.

Corona was _radiant._ Anna heard rumors about it from the staff and fell all the more and more in love with the idea of visiting the Land of the Sun with each passing breath. ( _“It's supposed to be the sunniest kingdom in the world, Mama—full of summer! Its summers are enviable, second to none. Er. I mean. Perhaps next to Arendelle, that is. Uh. Well. Maybe—crap, I am so bad at this diplomacy stuff._ ”)

No longer would Anna have to wait in Elsa's _“preferable”_ shadow. She wouldn't have to wait in _anyone's_ shadow, or so she told her mother. She'd be sixteen! She'd attend events and parties and balls.

Jack sighed. _Anna. If you only knew._

And yet, he reminded himself, as lonely as Elsa was.... Didn't Anna have it ten times worse? (Of course, on the other hand, _she_ lived without constant fear; in truth, Anna was as free as she wanted to be, and many of her cages were ones she'd built herself.) Yet through everything, Anna was still alone. Sure, she had her mother... and her father, but.

Elsa had Jack.

(But in the end it didn't matter how each suffering compared; they both suffered.)

Later that night, Jack visited the King and Queen on a whim of curiosity. They were speaking in hushed voices, as they were apt to do, as exhaustion rained down on them in heaving droves. Something about the Queen wanting to protect her daughter from having her heart broken? ( _Anna—or Elsa?_ ) Seeing only the good in people? The daughter in question became clear quite soon after, in which the Queen rejoiced and lamented that her daughter had not yet seen enough of the world to know its cruelty.

After all. One of the only _real_ things that had ever happened to her had been erased from her Memory.

. * * * .


	167. - and now -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/17/15_. Apparently Elsa's birthday is December 21st. Which is usually around the time of the winter solstice. Which makes sense. But I've been operating under the assumption that her birthday is in mid-January for multiple reasons, so I'mma just go ahead and make it January 21st in this story instead. :P (This information was released after I was already 180,000+ words deep into the story, sooooo bear with me, haha.)

 

. * * * .   
  


_\- and now -  
_ _(eighteen)_

_. * * * ._

 

Elsa turned eighteen.

And that was the kicker. Elsa had grown up, right before his very eyes—and had he actually been looking? Had he been watching? It was hard to remember. ( _How was he supposed to remember this for eternity,_ _if he could barely hold onto it now?_ The thought sent panic ricocheting through his chest every time he thought about it, so he didn't think about it.) The point was that, somehow, he'd still missed it. Lost in his own thoughts, while she was right there in front of him. He caught most of it—but what if there was something even more important that he'd missed? He'd never get it back.

He could tell that Elsa felt the weight of the situation too, even if she didn't mention it outright. Instead, she took a page from his book, and tried to make light of it. She teased him about “superiors” or something, silly things like stations and ages and ranks.

Jack gladly retorted back that he could very well still be older than her and not know it. It wasn't like they kept strict records of the villagers' birthdays back in his day. (Seasons were good enough.) And even still, Jack's track record of Memories was a little... sloppy. So Jack didn't actually know his real age. He didn't know his birthday or anything—just his season, even after his Memories had been restored. Ironically, history wasn't exactly his strong point, either. He'd always been the one causing the trouble, getting his name scrawled into history books... not sticking around to see how people cleaned up afterwards.

( _“Who's to say I'm not eighteen, after all?” he ribbed. “Nineteen, even?”_

_Elsa went quiet. “Could that be true?”_

_Jack didn't respond, at first._

“ _Who knows?” he whispered. “It could be.”_ )

. * * * .

As usual, the presentation of gifts was a rather depressing affair.

Elsa opened the package with bare hands, took one look at the new pair of beautiful, elegant gloves, and stilled. Jack was certain that she would rip them in half.

But, as usual, she was a far better person than he was.

“What are we doing?” Elsa whispered. The gloves lay on the table between them, unmoved. She refused to touch them. “This is a lie.”

“We are doing the best that we can,” the King promised, soft and gentle, and so very, very tired. Had he always looked so old? The lines and wrinkles were carved deep into his brow. “We are living out our lives as normally as possible.”

“Living? Normally? I live in a cage, and you have joined me. You have dragged the kingdom down with us.”

They promised that she would have another ball, at age twenty-one. When she'd be of age to be crowned.

“You'd see me wear it?” she replied, sweet venom and vicious truth. So she told them what she told Jack, all those years ago. She would be Queen, whether they wished it or not.

They were lost and drowning and nearly hopeless, and when they moved ever-so-tentatively to touch her—to hug, or to hold, or who knows what, perhaps to prove to her or to themselves that they loved her no matter what—Elsa refused.

She didn't want their affection if she didn't have their trust.

. * * * .


	168. - blind you -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/27/15_. Here's all of them! This is the last of the day. :)

 

. * * * .

_\- blind you -_

. * * * .

**February  
  
**

Jack Frost was pissed off.

Why? Because it wasn't fair. Anna barely mentioned Elsa's name out loud anymore, and seemed every inch determined to forget about her altogether. The castle had already forgotten about the glory of Elsa's introduction and was focusing solely on the upcoming celebrations of Anna's. Like—Jack got it, okay. Jack understood, probably better than most people, just how fucking unfair life could be. But this didn't make sense.

And that wasn't even the half of it, because meanwhile, Rapunzel—who didn't even _Believe_ in Bunnymund anymore, who had found her family, reclaimed her throne, and was on the brink of marriage—had found the start of her happily ever after.

Toothiana had been practically salivating over her Memory Box for days, and all right—he'd admit it. Jack was jealous. Why did _Rapunzel_ get the happy ending, but not Elsa? ( _Not yet._ ) Why was Anna's happiness tainted with loneliness and abandonment?

And don't even get him _started_ on sunshine-magic versus frozen-magic. Sunshine: a magic seeped in healing, of eternal warmth and light. Whatever.

(Rapunzel didn't even _have_ magic anymore, according to her naive kingdom—all those except Flynn.) When Rapunzel was announced as the long lost Princess, there had been talk of the magic that had once saved the Queen, that had given her life, but it was still _magic_ —mysterious and unpredictable and strong and desirable, all the same. _It's gone_ , she told them, so her people could love her without fear or jealousy or uncertainty.

And that wasn't fair, either.

That both Rapunzel and Elsa should be forced to hide their true selves—it wasn't right.

 _What would the King of Corona have done_ , Jack wondered, _had Rapunzel not been stolen away?_ Locked her in a tower for all her life? Protect her forever? Teach her how to protect herself?

Rapunzel could have just as easily been locked away in a palace instead of a forest... Would it have truly been any different than what Mother Gothel had done? ( _Any different from the King and Queen of Arendelle?_ ) Mother Gothel had been a sick, selfish woman, but Jack couldn't dispel the thought from his mind: her motive _was_ different, inherently selfish and callous and driven by greed, but was true _love_ —protection and power and peace—really any better a reason?

He didn't dare voice the thought.

When magic came from the sunshine, it was fine— _or so people claimed, now that it was gone_. But magic from the mountains— _ice and sleet and snow, and natural beauty_ —that was sorcery. Dangerous.

But Jack wanted to remind them that the sun could just as easily blind you, should you stare it in the eye, and that no matter how pretty you dressed up a tower or a castle, a cage was still a cage.

Not that he would tell something like that to Bunny. Maybe one day.

But not today.

. * * * .


	169. - the story -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/28/15_. Listened to“Marching On” by OneRepublic. I'd always associated it with Team 7, because it came out during the height of my Naruto obsession, but I got really emotional while writing about the Burgess crew, too. :( It's the song's fault, because I do not regularly have feelings about the Burgess crew. Bah.

 

. * * * . __  
  


_\- the story -_   
  


. * * * . _  
_

Not long after, Jack returned to Burgess. It did not escape his notice, nor did it escape Jamie's, that this was the first time in years that all of the Believers were in the same place at the same time.

Over the next two weeks, Jack took to following Jamie around the town square as he reacquainted himself with old childhood haunts. He didn't say much on his own, whether the town was bustling at noon or empty at twilight, but his optimism still surfaced whenever the others expressed doubt or uncertainty, so that much, at least, hadn't changed. Jack watched him stroll down cobblestone streets and dirty front-yard pathways; Jamie didn't cut through backyards anymore, but Jack had a feeling that he might want to.

(Would they have come together like this, had Pitch not interfered?

Would they have a chance to do it again?)

( _Is that what Pitch wanted?_ )

Christmas always reminded Jack of Easter, and Easter always reminded Jack of Jamie. Just like ice-bunnies and standing up to bullies and asking the universe for a sign, whether or not the universe answered. It reminded him once more that the real reason the Guardians didn't let kids see them had nothing to do with secrecy or illusions or mystery. ( _It hurt too much, when they couldn't anymore._ )

He decided to tell Elsa about Jamie.

With her head over his heart and her warmth in his arms, lying comfortably on the bed. It was a lot easier, that way, and soon the story of watching Jamie relearn his old neighborhood turned into the story of the first moment Jamie saw him, the first person to do so in over three hundred years. The way he felt in that moment, or during the surreal, certain shock of that first hug. The day he realized that Jamie had grown up. Jack was pleased with himself, in a sort of distant way, that he was finally able to tell it pretty objectively.

Which is why he was so surprised when Elsa started crying.

. * * * .


	170. - the sweatshirt -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/28/15_.

  
. * * * .

_\- the sweatshirt -_

. * * * .

 

One day in late February, as teasing turned into _teasing_ (“ _You know_ , _I would be happy to help you with your, uh.... measurements, your highness._ ”), Jack unfortunately found himself in the midst of an actual conversation about dressmaking and clothes and honestly, what.

“I've always wondered what it would be like to wear one of the spring dresses that Anna always wears,” Elsa mused aloud. “I can't stand those jackets.”

Jack could tell. She hardly wore them anymore.

Elsa eyed him with amusement, no doubt sensing his feelings of being utterly lost, and grounded him with a single touch of her finger to his collar. The muscles twitched in his jaw. “Jack,” she began curiously, glancing to his eyes—entreating permission. “Where... did you come by the fabric to make your sweatshirt?”

Oh.

“It'd... I think I found it in like, a dump, or somewhere.”

“A what?”

“A bunch of old clothes and fabric had been... well. Abandoned. Thrown out. They didn't need it anymore, and I saw it, and I... liked it, I guess. So I took it and made something out of it.” He did not tell her that the parallels seemed appropriate. _Fitting_ , even.

“How were you able to... ?”

“Find it? Learn how to sew? Get a needle and thread and stuff? Not stab myself in the hand?”

“Yes,” Elsa replied curiously, almost dazed, then hardened a glare. “I mean, _no._ Why would I think that?”

Jack grinned. “Probably because I did it at least twenty times,” he admitted, flexing his hands in almost prideful glee. “Not that you can tell anymore, though. _No scars_ ,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper, just for fun. Elsa pushed him away in a fruitless shove as he laughed, then impulsively snuck a kiss to his jaw mere moments later, which of course, could never remain a simple, single kiss. (It came like this sometimes, the realization that she needed to touch him almost as much as he needed her. It made it hard to breathe, almost choked him with emotion—perhaps it would have, had Elsa allowed him any time to dwell.)

“I still don't know how it works, even now,” Jack explained later, because he could tell that Elsa's curiosity had not dimmed. “I mean... it's kind of weird, isn't it? I could touch the things that didn't matter, and affect those around me, but without any sort of fingerprint to leave behind. Well. Except Frost. But that gets kind of old, don't you think?”

He saw a flash of something in her eyes—a quip maybe, to yet another horrible, shameless joke—but Elsa simply looked at him, held his gaze, and whispered, “Never.”

There it was again. That feeling, welling up in his throat.

“I made it for myself,” he mumbled out, fighting the tightness in his chest. “Well, like—the hoodie was for me, obviously. But I could have just picked up any random sweatshirt off the ground, right? The point was that I wanted to _make_ it for myself,” he rambled, unsure of why he was saying any of this even as he was saying it. He'd never said this out loud before. “To like... _prove_ to myself that I could still learn something new.” _That I could change._ Jack ignored the rising blush on his cheeks, and haltingly explained, “Hiding out in classrooms might have its occasional upside, but you can't... I mean, you can't _see_ that kind of growth.”

Elsa was watching him very carefully. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

“So you made it yourself,” she reiterated, as if she'd just come to a very important conclusion. Jack tried not to feel awkward.

“Well,” he finished, feeling lame and dissatisfied. A shrug. “Something had to change.”

“You don't think you have?”

Jack considered this. Considered the blue of her eyes and the light in her hair and the way she reached for him without any hesitation at all, and the sudden, inexplicable feeling of _home_.

He half-grinned, the way he knew best. “Well,” he whispered meaningfully, tilting his head forward in gentle invitation. “Maybe now...”

The fevered kissing was not new, nor was the feel of Elsa's slender body beneath his hands, all gentle curves and softness, of willing mouths and just the tiniest strain of urgency, lingering hard and cold at the base of his skull. Jack was no stranger to that either, and he'd gotten very good at ignoring it.

But there _was_ something new, after all.

Whether it was all this talk of his sweatshirt, or it was because almost a month and a half had gone by, or simply because Elsa was becoming stronger every day and simply knew what she wanted— _who knew_ —but Jack, leaning over her on the wide expanse of her vast and luxurious bed, was not in the least prepared for when Elsa's fingers surely slipped beneath the hem of his sweatshirt and minutely brushed against the bare skin of his stomach.

A strangled sound escaped from his mouth into hers, both embarrassing and not-very all at once, because his skin was still tingling where she'd touched, and he could feel her smiling against his mouth, and her tongue was still as insistent as ever. Jack found himself laughing into her kiss, and nipping at her jaw— _you are not allowed to tell anyone,_ he warned _, that Jack Frost is ticklish—_ and then a long, heated look steeled him, and Jack watched every tiny nuance on her face as they slowed and stilled, and Elsa carefully slipped one warm palm onto the flat of this stomach. He exhaled.

He was suddenly aware of every ridge and valley on his own skin in a way he'd never been before— _and how long had it been since he'd seen his own stomach, anyways? Really?_ He was very self-conscious, all of a sudden, about the muscles and non-muscles he had beneath his clothing, and what Elsa thought of them.

For a moment or two, her hand remained completely still. Jack reminded himself, uselessly, that this was as new for her as it was for him, and that he shouldn't worry, that this could mean nothing even if it meant everything, and that all he had to do was breathe.

And so she felt him breathe, in and out, through the subtle movements against her palm, and then her fingers moved ever-so-slightly. Jack felt the hitch in his throat in the same moment that he saw the space in hers, in the flicker of darkness in her eyes. Her hand slowly began to travel upwards, pressing gently into the firm planes of his abdomen, until it came to rest over his ribs. She felt each and every one, down along his side.

From this position, Jack was certain that wasn't _all_ she was feeling, either.

Her hand found his back and his shoulders, and even though the position felt awkward and it forced Jack to lean more heavily atop her, he lay obediently still beneath her exploring fingers, cherishing each touch and locking it away, safe and hidden in wherever Guardians' Memories were kept. Where it would stay forever.

When her fingers skimmed back to the ridge of his hip, they came to dance along the very edge of his waist, where skin met fabric, and with a hiss, Jack rasped an abashed and grinning, “I wouldn't do that, if I were you.”

Elsa's nimble fingers stilled along the line of fabric, no doubt completely unaware of their agonizing effect, and she smiled, just a little. Not quite an apology, not quite a plea for permission, and not even a _not yet_.

( _One day_.)

Which might have been enough to kill him, in that very spot, had Elsa not poised her lips to his mouth and whispered, palm flat against his sternum, _“Can I see?”_

Shit.

It's not that he minded, because—honestly, he _didn't_. But at the same time...

“As long as you're not hoping to be impressed,” he joked, ignoring the fluttery, sick feeling in his gut. Elsa kissed him, which helped, and she even removed her hand to wrap it fiercely around his neck, and then—and then it was okay. It was better.

As anxiety started to spike once more—( _how do we do this? should I—? should she—?_ )—Jack decided to move quickly, without any real thought at all, like usual, before his insecurities could come crashing in. He lifted himself from her on shaking arms, then sat back on his heels, one of Elsa's legs still caught between his. He briefly wondered if he should ask her to help as she pressed herself onto her elbows— _more memories to hold onto_ —then decided that this was taking too long, and it was now or never, and yanked the sweatshirt off in one sweep of his arm. (Enjoyed an absurd wave of pride in being able to do that, especially with never having actually taken it off—)

And then he caught sight of Elsa's face.

His stomach coiled and clenched at the wideness of her eyes, at the slight, shocked parting of her lips. _What is she thinking?_ Uncertainty had left his mouth dry, and his throat welling. She'd sat up fully now, and it was as she haltingly reached out to touch him that he realized what exactly it was that she was looking at.

“This... this shift,” Elsa whispered, running her fingers gently over the fabric at his chest. “This—tunic, or... where...?”

_Ah._

Old and faded, and sewn with linen threads that he'd help cut, himself, centuries ago. A basic shirt, fit for any Shepherd boy in the fields, no matter the day or the season.

 _Well,_ thought Jack, disappointed but unsure as to why.

Some things, he decided, were better left unchanged.

“This is... what I wore,” Jack tried to explain, then quieted when he realized that his next words might have been, _when I died_.

She was utterly fascinated. Elsa kept rolling the fabric between her fingers, wide-eyed and speechless, apparently completely unaware that she was still in his lap, that he hovered over her with an exposed neck and an aching mouth and way too much uncertain anxiety than any single maybe-seventeen-year-old boy should contain. He was going to pass out.

“Elsa?”

Her eyes snapped to his, almost guiltily. He wondered at that, but was ultimately too addled to think of why Elsa might have any reason to feel such a thing. She received his kiss with all due attention, and a deepness that wasn't there before, and when Jack shifted himself so that his hands were free to remove the shirt from his chest, Elsa reached for his hand.

“Could you...” she whispered, stutteringly, like it hurt to ask. “Could you leave it on, please?”

Jack stared at her, searchingly. When Elsa held his gaze, she blushed.

Astounded, and a little confused— _and disappointed? hurt?_ —Jack slowly nodded, not quite sure _why_ she was making such a request, but willing to follow it, anyway.

“It's not that I—we could still... later,” Elsa incoherently explained, and Jack marveled at her, at this unprecedented turn of events. “It's just...” She was staring at the damn shirt again.

And then.

“I get it,” Jack whispered quietly, even if he didn't know how to feel about it.

“You don't have to,” Elsa insisted, sounding afraid. “If it bothers you.”

It did. But not for the reasons she might imagine.

Jack called forth his most worthy of smiles, and leaned down to chase her worries away with a kiss. There was a new, underlying heat to her passion that was not quite present before, and as he treasured each urgent touch and breath and moan, Jack let himself examine the reasons why.

As it turned out, Elsa's little fantasy was not so different from his own.

( _He was just a simple_ _peasant boy, probably from some nameless, far-off village._  
He was a Shepherd without any money or riches to his name,  
who'd traveled far in hopes of providing for his family,  
in securing himself a position in the King's favor—and instead,  
he'd found himself in the favor of the Princess.

 _A commoner of Arendelle and beyond, with no remarkable abilities e_  
xcept for getting into trouble, as human and alive and un-extraordinary as  
any other plebeian trickster, except for the single gift of making the Princess smile,  
and laugh, and maybe even love.  
  
And now he's snuck into her chambers at her bequest,  
where she's rid him of his cloak and his worker's vest,  
where she explores him with her hands while he marvels  
at the unparalleled gift that she is, the impossible hope she represents,  
the way she lets him touch her face and her body and her heart.

 _A peasant boy from the colonies who's been hidden away  
in her chambers for a romp in her bed, who laughs  
and pleases and does all he can before anyone wise enough  
comes to check on the Princess and finds her in the arms of a __lesser man._ )

  
Jack could even pretend that, were that to happen, they might actually find him.

. * * * .


	171. - three days-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/5/15_. Maybe this is just me, but tumblr has seemed awfully quiet lately. :P I'd planned on writing a lot more for ATC this week, but then midterms got in the way, and I have a feeling that it's a similar situation for most. Womp.
> 
> Here's a quick one to prove that I haven't disappeared. :P I've also been working on the final chapter for CTPFF, so there's another reason why the updates are slow in coming. :P :P

  
. * * * .  
  
 _\- three days -_  
  
. * * * .

**March**

 

Jack could feel the first traces of spring in the air; he could feel it on his skin, in the itch beneath the surface, in the tightness within his lungs.  
  
He watched it happen.

He watched as the snow melted and the flowers budded, as the world slowly shifted into endless shades of green. He watched a single letter arrive from the Southern Isles every fortnight, to be delivered directly into Elsa's hands. He watched Anna learn to dance with her father, and the townspeople begin to smile more, and Elsa retreat further into herself.

Until, of course, he got a hold of her.

. * * * .  


It was not a particularly eventful day, but Jack was happy all the same. Monty had been released from his facility and would soon be returning to his old life with new support, and for the first time in weeks, Jack had seen Toothiana breathe a genuine sigh of relief. Jamie and the others had exchanged goodbyes once more, but Jack had a feeling that, this time, it would take neither an almost-tragedy nor _too many years_ to bring them all together again. He didn't know why he knew this.

( _Call it a Guardian's Intuition._ ) 

Anyway, Jack was content, and things seemed to be going particularly well—which meant that another strike from Pitch was probably right around the corner. But the particularly magical thing was that Jack was getting a lot better at not letting the Bogeyman rule his everyday thoughts, and so Jack let himself appreciate the gentle touch of the springtime sunshine (even if it made his skin dry and tight and uncomfortable), and sit with Elsa under the evening stars in their usual spot on the roof (even if it made him miss the winter), and let the wind take him where he was needed, when he was needed. Jack had finally learned how to live in all of the different worlds, with both of his different lives.

( _Call it balance, or something._ )  
  
So he was rather surprised, naturally, when a new letter from Prince Henrik had Elsa staring out the window for hours, lost in thought and silence. (And Jack couldn't help himself, couldn't help but wonder, _was that look pensive—or pining?_ ) 

. * * * .

For three days, he didn't mention it.

Instead he let her private thoughts stay private, and he let himself consider the possibilities with as rational a mind as he could. (He was trying.) This sort of contemplation rarely led to good things, but Jack supposed that was the nature of being an invisible, immortal, ghost-of-a-sprite protector who was bound to the universe and its youth by an eternal oath he took when the only other choice was to disappear into oblivion.  
  
So. 

. * * * .

On the fourth morning, Jack Frost spent a disgusting amount of time thinking about Anna's ball, and particularly how Elsa would be dancing and her sister would be dancing, and the whole world— _slight_ exaggeration—would be dancing. Save for Jack.  
  
Of course, thoughts of Anna's ball and Elsa dancing invariably led to thoughts of _him_ dancing with Elsa, though what surprised Jack most was that _these_ silly little visions seemed to lack the same imaginative qualities he possessed in every other stupid fantasy; where he'd spent the whole of Elsa's introduction imagining himself in a fine suit and princely makings, he now only imagined himself at this future ball as he truly was—pale, light on his feet, covered in frost, and filled to the brim with magic. And people could see him. Like. Adults and stuff.  
  
Which was stupid.  
  
The whole thing was stupid, but this little, nagging vision was especially so. Was it really so bad if he just wanted to be with Elsa the way that he actually was? Without her having to hide, or for him to _be_ hidden? (Forever, maybe?)  
  
And then those hopeful, impossible thoughts inevitably trickled into _would she be dancing with Henrik?_ and it was all downhill from there.  
  
She would be comparing the two of them, whether she realized it or not, because Elsa was an analytical and thoughtful kind of person, and while Jack was certain that he would come out with her favor in the end, did he really want her to have the opportunity for judgment at all? Jack may have bested Henrik in all other qualities—looks, strength, perspective, _er_ , sort of, and most importantly _fun—_ but he also knew that Henrik could dance. Not that _he_ couldn't, because a few centuries of flying made you light on your feet, but. You know. Henrik probably had training and stuff. For years. (But he didn't have four dozen yetis though, either, so—?)  
  
The point was that he didn't want anyone else to dance with her, _least_ of all Henrik.  
  
And he didn't really have a choice.

( _Elsa had a choice, of course,  
and he tried very hard not to resent her for that_.)

And then the following evening came and went, with Jack flitting past Anna's newest resting spot near the kitchens, where Anna was bubbly conversing with a few of the staff, and Jack wasn't eavesdropping, per se, but as he floated past, he heard things such as _marriage_ and _proposals_ and—for the first time, in this context— _children.  
_

Jack certainly did not repeat it aloud, and he barely spoke for the rest of the night.  
  
But he did not forget.

. * * * .


	172. - a rock -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/5/15_. Just banged this one out. No beta-ing or anything for this little one. I'm trying to keep this fic rolling because I'd like to finish it by the end of the year! Ideally, I'd like to actually have it finished by the end of the summer, but we shall see. :P
> 
> (I'm still laughing about this one, btw.)

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- a rock -_  
  
. * * * .

 

Bunny noticed his silence over the next few days, but Jack wouldn't explain. 

In the meantime, Jack and Elsa continued to enjoy each other's company in ways both new and old, both proper... and less proper.  
  
(The actual mention of what _was_ proper had been broached only once, and it was inexorably through a joke made by none other than Elsa. She would remain _ladylike_ , she'd said, through a bright bubble of laughter, due to her obligations as heiress to the throne. _But_ _a little touching never hurt anyone,_ she'd promised, and for days afterward, he wondered if she'd truly understood exactly what it was that she'd said.  
  
It was Elsa. Of course she had.

( _It didn't hurt either, he bet, that no one could see him but her.  
But Jack didn't feel the need to bring that up._ )

. * * * . 

“Is this about Tooth?”

Jack nearly broke the hoe in half.  
  
“ _Watchit._ I ain't payin' you to ruin the equipment!”  
  
Jack deadpanned, “You're not paying me at all.”

“Precisely. Now is this about Tooth or what?”  
  
There was a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a groan, and then Jack threw himself back into the gardening. Jack always found this a little fascinating—cultivating the ground and manual labor and stuff—now that he didn't actually _have_ to do it anymore; it was a very different perspective from the _swoosh, swoosh—snow!_ lifestyle that he lived by, and the two methods were different enough for him to appreciate the value of raking his fingers through the ground. He wouldn't share as much with Bunny, but Jack figured the secret was probably out, anyway: nobody showed up at the Warren to water plants more than Jack did.  
  
“You're not answerin'.”  
  
“There's nothing to really say,” Jack offered back, feeling the hoe catch on a particularly large rock. He was getting way too hot in his sweatshirt, the _really_ uncomfortable kind that made it hard for him to breathe, but Jack had only taken that sweatshirt off once in the last three hundred or so years, and he wasn't really itching to do it again.  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
With a sigh, Jack raised himself up to consider Bunny fully. The Pooka always thought he looked so intimidating like that, with his feet spread out and his arms crossed and that stern look on his face—and who knows, maybe it was—but Jack had seen the little fluffy bunny that he truly was, had seen him cower before a greyhound in a delightfully humiliating display, so that sort of thing didn't tend to work on Jack anymore.  
  
But guilt did.  
  
Jack chewed on the inside of his cheek and stared at the ground, leaning casually against the long wooden handle. “What makes you think this is about Tooth?”  
  
Bunnymund considered him for a long moment, blank-faced and patient in a way that annoyed Jack for reasons he couldn't decipher even for himself. “You seem happier,” he abruptly declared.  
  
Jack blinked. He had a feeling they'd just switched conversations. “Is that part of your Hope magic? You got a Happy-o-Meter tucked away in your left ear?”  
  
“You seem older, too.”  
  
Now, that—  
  
That shut Jack up.  
  
“Look,” Bunny insisted, with that same level-headedness that crawled over Jack's neck, and he didn't know why. “Your business is your business, especially if it's making your job a lot easier, and coincidentally making you a lot better at your job. But just because you're feeling more secure in your Guardianship and starting to enjoy the ride doesn't mean that you have to let the new pressures seep into the cracks.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I'm talking about all the shit that comes _after_ you're actually comfortable with the reality of what we've got,” Bunny explained, “and I'm starting to think that you actually are. In the sense that any of use can be _comfortable_ , anyway.” This... this was new. For years Bunny had treated him as a friend—as a brother, maybe, but—?  
  
Was this what it felt like to be treated like an equal?  
  
“So... what? You're saying that I'm like, onto the next stage or something?” Jack ventured slowly, and was this _really_ going to be the fourth time he sighed in the last—  
  
“Aren't you?” Bunny countered, with just the barest hint of argument.  
  
Stunned, and then flustered for no good reason at all, Jack scoffed and returned to his gardening, full-force. Snarked, “So that automatically makes you think there's something wrong between me and Tooth?”  
  
“Frost, you've got the look of a man with the uncertainty of _future_ written all over his face.”  
  
Jack faltered for only the briefest second, and cursed inwardly with the knowledge that Bunny had to have seen; Bunny may have been competitive, but he wasn't one for games—he didn't fuck with people for the hell of it, like Jack did. Jack wondered how justifiable it really was to dwell on the differences between _boy_ and _man_ and _hey, kid._ Jack was reading too much into this, clearly.  
  
“It's not Tooth,” Jack grounded out eventually, while Bunny simply stood and watched Jack tend to his garden. “She has enough on her plate as it is.”  
  
“That, she does,” Bunny acknowledged. “But then maybe so do you.”  
  
“You saying I can't do my job?”  
  
“If you'd been listening, knucklehead, you'd know that's the very opposite of what I've been saying.”  
  
“Sorry, I don't speak cryptic.”  
  
“Yeah, well you certainly don't wax poetic either.”  
  
“I'm sure this hoe would make a very fine hat. It would complement your ears.”  
  
“Too late. Tooth already knit me one back in 1674.”  
  
Slowly, Jack's hoeing came to a stop. He waited.  
  
“What do you want, Bunny?” he asked carefully.  
  
“I want you to realize that just because you get closer to someone, it doesn't mean it's going to ruin the friendship the trust was based on.”  
  
Jack blinked, off-guard. “That's... unexpected.”  
  
“Is it?” Bunny argued, eyes piercing, and Jack said nothing. “For a couple years back, you were worried about fucking up with Tooth, or fucking yourself over by ruining a family you only just got, and it seems to me that you're starting to realize now that it isn't the case.”  
  
Jack gritted his teeth and gnawed on his cheek and suddenly couldn't look Bunny in the eye. Steeled himself, looked up, and said, “Maybe.”  
  
Bunny grinned.  
  
“Maybe,” he echoed slowly, like he was testing the truth of it on his tongue. He was satisfied, apparently, if the widening grin was anything to go by. “All right.”  
  
God _dammit_.  
  
“Jesus, Frost—you're gonna break the damn hoe!”  
  
“It's your fault for turning a simple gardening session into a frickin' heart-to-heart,” Jack groaned out, raking at the ground with a vengeance. “All I wanted to do today was to just rake shit up.”  
  
“Yeah, and we took a little break to do some digging,” Bunny remarked, and the bastard was _laughing_ ; Jack could hear it in his voice. “Seemed appropriate.”  
  
“Fucking metaphors,” Jack grumbled. “Damn Pooka.”  
  
“Easy, mate,” Bunny laughed, settling in easy at the workspace to Jack's side. As good as Jack was, Bunny always made this look at least ten times easier. “You'll split yourself like that.”  
  
“Liar,” Jack muttered, then cursed when the corner of his hoe hit a stray rock. The eggs off to the side chuckled, and he resisted the urge to flick them over. _Enough of this nonsense_ , Jack grinned to himself, preparing to turn the tables. “So what the hell brought this all on, anyway?” he snarked. “This whole— _I'm wise and experienced and am here to tell you that even eternal break-ups can still end in 'let's just be friends'._ ”

“When have I _ever_ sounded like that?”  
  
“Seriously, don't you _like_ free labor? Why bother interrupting me to just to tell me that Tooth and I can still be good co-Guardians or whatever, even after whatever inevitably happens?”  
  
“Because sometimes, Frost,” he quipped, smoothly raking a stream of long, perfectly straight lines through the soil. Jack looked on in disgust. “I don't think you actually believe it.”

( _Thought of Elsa in a wedding gown, unbidden,_  
_walking down the long aisle of some church he never learned the name of,_  
_toward Henrik._ ) 

“What makes you such an expert on post-relationship stuff, anyway?” Jack couldn't help but ask, because the image still hurt and the heat was still hot and the hoe was heavy in his hands. “If you're so smart and experienced about macking up an eternal co-worker, why don't you just write a damn book and save me an earful?”  
  
Bunny chuckled. “I might,” he answered, his accent crisp in the afternoon's magical sunlight. “But I doubt Tooth would let me.”  
  
The hoe struck a rock.  
  
“Wait,” said Jack, frozen. “What?”

. * * * .


	173. - into more -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/14/15_. Just a quick one for today! Hoping to have the next one out in a few days.

 

 

. * * * .

_  
\- into more -_

  
. * * * .

 

Between the springtime sunlight and the unexpected truth bombs regarding co-Guardian so-called _history_ , Jack Frost had one hell of a roaring headache.

“Frost, it was only for a few decades!” Bunny had been trying to laugh it off for at least ten minutes—and even more so after Jack nearly shut down completely. “It was something of... I don't know—a fling, you could call it.”

“Well, that's comforting,” Jack grumbled, brutally dragging the hoe through the ground. The damn garden had already been cultivated four times over, but he was still going. He wasn't about to stop.

“Sarcasm? Really?” Bunny deadpanned. “Is your defense really that fragile?”

“Bunnymund, in case you haven't noticed, the world is a fragile place.”

“Look, I get that you're surprised—”

“ _Surprised,_ ” Jack echoed, aghast.

“But it can't be that much of a shocker, can it? I mean—Frost, what's really bothering you about this?”

“Would you like a list? Oh well—in that case. Firstly, just allow me to say that this really puts all of your rabbit sex-talks into perspective. Oh god. No. Forget I said that. SHIT. Stop. Dammit. Fuck. DAMMIT.”

“This is really weirding you out?” Bunny replied, incredulously and undeniably amused. He was doing a shitty job of trying to hide it—if, in fact, he was indeed trying to hide his amusement at all. The fucker. “ _This_ much?” Bunnymund sounded truly perplexed, and as a result, Jack found himself generously and exceedingly angry-confused. Wasn't _he_ the one who had the right to be perplexed? Jack was the epitome of flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Mindfucked.

No.

“How is this _not_ weirding you out?” Jack demanded, and he did _not_ sound anything close to hysterical. Just angry. _Very, very_ — “I mean, isn't it—shit. _How_ are you actually okay with this?” he gritted out, determined to get to the point. “With her...” Oh, god. “You know, being... _interested_ in me. And me... figuring stuff out. How?!”

Bunny's voice was calm, which just made Jack tear the hoe into the ground even harder. He was probably halfway to China. “Toothiana and I... have a friendship that's much deeper now because of it,” Bunny explained, with an air of maturity and wisdom that angered Jack on a matter of _principle._ “We're not interested in each other the same way we might have been once.”

“Well, why the hell not?”

He... wasn't sure he'd meant to ask that.

“Why not?” Bunny blinked, and Jack pretended that it’d been intentional. “Well... life changed, I guess. And so did we.”  
  


. * * * .

(And as Jack could later admit, it made sense.  
He guessed. It probably made a lot of sense, actually  
But even if he did feel a little relief,  
Jack couldn't quite feel entirely relieved.

Evidently, even eternal companionship  
didn't necessarily mean _forever._ )

. * * * .  


In the final two days of the week following Henrik's most recent letter, Jack came to a number of important conclusions. It wasn't easy, but Jack started to consider the idea that _maybe this could work_. And by _this_ , Jack generally meant: life.

No big expectations, no grand gestures. Just... getting to know the world better. Getting to know Tooth and the other Guardians in ways Jack may not have allowed himself to consider within the last twenty years or so because he could never be entirely certain that they—that _he_ —wouldn't just disappear. He wanted to develop better friendships with all of them, and spend the rest of eternity being a better part of their family. He wanted to support Tooth through all of her struggles, and be there for her when she was tired or lost or disappointed. He could be a good friend. And maybe, one day— _long after Elsa had drifted off into sleep, peaceful and content at a proper old-age, after he had grieved and mourned and cursed and cried_ —

It might turn into more. And, as he was just barely beginning to understand, that too might change and grow and _end_ , some day, just like everything else.

But at least it'll have happened.

. * * * .  


“Do you think about it sometimes?” Jack asked the very next day, because he was weak and apparently enjoyed torture. “What it'd be like to live forever?”

“You mean like Gothel?”

Jack winced. “No,” he said, and quietly cleared his throat. Dragged his fingertips down the length of her sleeve. Didn't look her in the eye. “I meant like me, actually.”

Elsa was visibly surprised. “Oh,” was all she said.

He pasted on a smile. “You didn't forget, did you?”

“No,” she replied immediately, which twisted his insides in a way that it really shouldn't have. “I wouldn't. I just...” She didn't finish, but she didn't need to; Jack knew exactly what she meant.

“Sorry,” he laughed, and ignored the distant, silent screaming in the back of his head. “Shouldn't have brought it up.

“ _No_ ,” she echoed, more forcefully, and placed a warm hand over his arm, clenching tight to his sweatshirt. “It's... it's probably important that we discuss this sort of thing now, isn't it?”

Jack's mouth dried out so fast he nearly choked on his tongue. “Maybe,” he replied neutrally, because Jack was thinking clearly enough now that he could admit that this probably _was_ a decent thing to do, discussing their future or lack thereof, and perhaps a necessary one, but also, “Just not today.”

Because apparently he could still dream, after all.

. * * * .

 

 


	174. - too strong -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/14/15_.

. * * * .  
  
 _\- too strong -_  
  
. * * * .  
  
  


One day, Jack noticed that Elsa had not touched her morning tea.  
  
“Too strong?” Jack asked curiously, thinking that Olga had no doubt gotten distracted in the kitchens by a certain Pavel and left the leaves to steep for too long. Elsa smiled, as if picturing his own imaginings, then shook her head no.   
  
“Just lost track of time,” she replied, and if there was a hint of self-deprecation then Jack did not hear it, because in his head was a resounding mantra of _time_.  
  
“Oh. Okay,” he said, and tossed the remains into the fire. Olga came by later to retrieve the dishes, and whisked them back away to the kitchens, humming softly to herself.  
  
Jack did not think on it again.

. * * * .


	175. - already passed -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/14/15_.

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- already passed -_  
  
. * * * .  


Jamie got a promotion at work. The whole office celebrated with diplomatic subtlety during the remaining workday hours, then treated him to a rousing happy hour at their usual bar just two blocks down. Jack perched himself on a nearby rooftop and watched through the glass, laughing and fondly shaking his head, and when Jamie quietly slipped outside later to call Pippa, he felt himself warm with pride.

He was in high spirits when he arrived in Arendelle, feeling whole and content and complete, but the high and the glow both faltered when he set foot in the crown Princess' royal chambers, and he noticed that Elsa was wearing a jacket. Incredulously, he remarked, “What's that for?”  
  
Elsa looked down at the shrug over her shoulders as if to admire the threads, which Jack found rather odd. He hoped it showed on his face, but she wasn't really looking at him. “Just remembering,” she answered, like that was any kind of answer at all.  
  
“Remembering what?” Jack confused, and was only mildly pleased with himself that he hadn't tacked on, _Being imprisoned inside your own clothes?_ And it was springtime, no less.  
  
“Anna,” she told him, then laid a careful hand over the cover of her newest journal, the one he gave her, as if she were _remembering_ something within that very moment. Jack understood, so he sat by the window and gave her peace and quiet, but sent her a kiss of snow every so often, to remind her that he was there. She wrote in her journal for the rest of the evening, and then he followed her to bed, gentle hands and silent kisses, and memories in the dark.

. * * * .

Jack did not share his observations aloud, but he started to notice the extra breaths she took before reaching for the handle of a door, or the strange new ways she curled and flexed her fingers whilst in thought. She seemed hardly aware of it and deeply conscious of it all at once, and Jack could not determine for the life of him whether he was supposed to know.  
  
“Any nightmares lately?” he asked, because that was the surest place to start. _Leave it to Pitch to fuck things up._ Right on cue.  
  
“Only the usual,” she admitted, which was not comforting in the slightest.  
  
“Anything... you want to talk about?”

Elsa laughed, gentle and sweet, which tumbled Jack's stomach into a shaking mess. (She laughed with him like she still couldn't believe it sometimes—the way he still didn't, like it was too good to be true; Jack might have thought, _too good too last_ , but that notion was already inevitable, a contract they had both signed and sealed the night they'd decided to stop playing a game of denial and started one of chance.) She kissed him like he was something good, someone worthy and worthwhile, and he clutched onto it with everything he had, with kisses and laughter and attentiveness, anything he possibly could to make her understand even a sliver of the depths to which he adored her.  
  
By the time Jack vaguely realized that she'd never answered his question, the moment had already passed.

. * * * .


	176. - someone else -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/15/15_. I'll post one chapter today and one tomorrow! 
> 
> I also saw _Frozen Fever_ and _Cinderella_ today. FF was all right, and it was nice to see the characters again, but _Cinderella_ really surprised me. I went in with relatively low expectations, and I was pretty pleased. Super sweet. ;)
> 
>  **Beta'd** by the lovely **ALISON**.  <3

 

. * * * .

_\- someone else -_

. * * * .

Elsa had not mentioned Henrik in almost nine days; it should have been a blessing.

But instead Jack found himself contemplating the unfairness, which he knew to be utterly pointless. (Three centuries worth of brooding habits were hard to break, even after a decade of trying.)

“Anything new from the land of Sideburns?” he quipped, because joking about it generally cut a layer of pain off the surface, or at least covered it up. It was mid-afternoon, and Jack was in the mood to be civil. “I hear his buttons were very fashionable this winter.”

Elsa's resulting _look_ reminded Jack that they had very different interpretations of the word 'civil'.

“Don't be petty,” she reminded him, sounding more bored than scolding. Jack paused, caught speechless by her tone—something between casual and unaffected, just short of blasé—and found himself striding silently toward the window, tight-jawed and board-stiff, and brimming with silent, unexpected fury.

. * * * .

For the next hour, Jack stewed in his own frustration at the window while Elsa diligently wrote in her journal. He started to feel Elsa's gaze every so often, all curious looks and concerned silences, but Jack's out-the-window stare held fast. Jack was beginning to learn the value of _keeping his mouth shut_ , and today's simmering pot of anger made for a solid session of practice.

 _Petty_ , she'd said.

If, for a moment, he could humor her argument of what or wasn't _petty_ —wasn't he allowed a little pettiness? He didn't claim that it was _productive_ , but wasn't it more than reasonable? Elsa was caught in a long-distance courtship with a Prince who would one day help her rule Arendelle, who would unite the kingdoms in all the ways Elsa had always dreamed of, and Jack would have no choice but to sit back and watch. Elsa would marry a man who would enter her life in a way Jack never could, who would exchange vows with her at the end of an aisle and pronounce his love for _all the world to hear_ , who would share a home and a family and a _bed_ with her, and all of the marital pleasures that came with it. She would live out the rest of her life with a man who would be her partner in all aspects of the word, who would learn and grow and change with her, who would be a father to her children.

As the sun set, the resentment only grew.

Elsa's looks grew longer and more frequent, and Jack's agitation only heightened dramatically in result. He was forcing himself to sit still, which never boded well, and he could feel a chill in the air that was just a little _too_ concentrated to be completely natural... and it wasn't from him.

 _Screw this_.

Swift and wordless, Jack Frost left his perch at the window, along with his staff. Bare feet padded against the wooden panels, over the rug, and over to the desk where Elsa stared only at her journal as she wrote fiercely into the pages. He knew that she could sense him—his every movement—but she was building up to something, he could see, and Jack was not yet ready to break the silence, either. Calm enough, perhaps, but not quite ready.

He lifted himself onto the corner of her desk, just off to the side of her workspace. Her eyes flickered, just briefly, when he crossed his legs at the ankles and loosely hugged his knees in the wide berth of his elbows, playing at her peripheral vision, but he said nothing, and neither did she. Her quill flew seamlessly across the page. Jack sat back and waited until, finally, Elsa set down her quill.

A long moment passed.

“I'm sorry,” Elsa said gently, staring at the front of her journal with despondent eyes. Jack glanced down to the cover and absently wondered when she'd closed it; she never left it open for longer than necessary. Not even for a moment, and Jack wondered— “I was insensitive, and I have nothing to justify it. And very little to help me explain.”

 _Try_ , he thought, bitter and caustic, and said nothing.

Another silence stretched on, to the point where Jack's discomfort threatened to overwhelm his cooling anger. He wasn't the only one suffering through this, he reminded himself. Even if their situations were _different_ , even if she had the hope of a future whereas he only had the endless expanse of eternity awaiting him, they were in this together. They had each _other_ , but only for so long, and _you don't always get to play the victim, Jack Frost._

“Elsa—”

“It's been hard,” she whispered, smoothing her fingertips over the flat of the journal's cover, until—abruptly, they stilled. Elsa bit her lip, contemplating her words, and as Jack watched on the knitting of his brow only deepened.

“Elsa,” he repeated, and waited until she looked up at him. Her hand lay limply over the closed journal, and her posture was relaxed—nearly hunched—but tension rolled from her frame, and her gaze was almost blank with emotion as they settled onto his. For a moment, he lost his train of thought.

Then he cleared his throat, and said, “It's okay.”

Elsa's smile was quick and wry, and told him everything he needed to know about how this conversation was going to go. _Liar_ , her eyes seemed to challenge, and her gaze actually seemed to heat with it, but her stance was distant and calm, a weak and tenuous attempt at separating the pain from the present. He did it all the time, so he wasn't sure why he was still so surprised, why he'd gotten so angry.

_She learned it from you, didn't she?_

“It's not,” she countered softly, looking into him. “But thank you.”

This was the part where he could have asked her questions. _What's bothering you?_ he could have tried, but there were too many things to name, and not many of them could be controlled. He could have just as easily have apologized in turn—for an overreaction on his part, for sure, if not an understandable one—but Jack wasn't sure he was willing to give one, and it wasn't merely stubbornness that made him think that way. Elsa may have deserved one, but _Elsa deserved many things_ , many of which he could not give her.

So Jack explained, instead.

“It sucks, you know,” he began quietly. His voice was even, and his body was still, and that was probably more telling than not. “Knowing that one day you'll move on from me.”

A deep inhale expanded Elsa's chest, pushing her farther back into the seat of her chair. Jack watched every movement, trying desperately not to flinch at the way she'd lowered her eyes to stare at some insignificant speck on the desk. For a moment he merely watched her, took in the sight of the shadows on her face, and felt himself grow breathless with pain.

“Jack,” she whispered, and he didn't like where her tone was going.

“I'm not done,” he insisted, leaning towards her. “You may not think it's helpful, and maybe you're right, but I can't hold this in anymore.”

“I'm not asking you—”

“Yeah, well, maybe you're aren't, but you're certainly leading by example.”

Elsa's expression shuttered, and he thought he saw her wince.

Jack's chest spasmed with the sharpness of his next breath, and he hissed out, “Damn. I didn't... Elsa, I didn’t mean... I'm just saying that I can't be like this. I've tried not to say much, because I know how much it upsets you—and it doesn't really help _me_ , either—but I just—I want to _talk_ to you like I used to. We shared our problems with each other and even when I couldn't tell you how I felt about you, I could still rely on what we had, and now I—” He cut himself off, because was getting too far ahead of himself, and he didn't like where he was going. “Elsa, I need you to know what's going on inside my head.”

She was so strangely quiet. Her fingers drummed once, soft and gentle, onto the cover of the journal, and then Jack started at the sudden color of her gaze, staring into his. Her face was very guarded, but Jack could see beneath the mask. He could hear the uncertainty and the worry and the anticipation, all drenched in affection and investment and something he might one day be brave enough to call love, when she quietly ordered, “Tell me.”

Jack hesitated— _it's not too late to turn back_ —then lifted his chin, and braced himself.

“I want to marry you,” he told her, with all the simplicity and declaration of fact, and held firm when Elsa's eyes widened in shock. “And not necessarily the way you think of it, with legal documents and big ceremonies and alliances, although sometimes I think about that too.”

“Jack,” she whispered, stunned—

“This isn't something that just came out of nowhere,” he rushed over her, determined to lay it all on the table—his heart, and everything else. “And it's _not_ —it's more than that. Marriage has always meant something different to you, and I get it, but the idea of sharing a—a _life_ with someone has changed so many times over the years for me that I don't even know where my concepts of marriage started, or how much they even changed, but I do know that I want you—and I want so much for you to have all the things that I can't give you, the stuff I wish I could share with you, and the fact that you're going to one day leave me for an actual life with a Prince who can do all of that for you is just—” Jack cut off, overtaken by the lump in his throat, which he'd pointedly ignored up until now.

“Jack,” Elsa said quietly, and even if she wasn't looking at him, it was clear that she was crying.

“No, wait,” he breathed, feeling his chest constrict with unbelievable force. “I have to—just listen to me. I think about this all the time, whether you do or not, okay? And I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty, because I _know_ that you have obligations, and I'm not gonna pretend like I don't hate them as much as I love how they're actually part of you, and that you have so much other shit to think about for your future, but I'm telling you—for whatever reason—that I can't stand the thought of you ever being with someone else, no matter how great they are, because it's not _me_ , and it won't ever be, and one day I'm gonna have to find a way to get over that.”

“ _Jack_ ,” said Elsa wetly, turning shining, red eyes up towards his, and he wanted to kiss her, right now, take all the pain away. “I don't think you—”

“I want to spend the rest of— _of_ —I don't even fucking know, you see?” Jack snarled and turned away, disgusted with himself. “This is—I don't even know how long we could even spend together, your life or my life or fucking forever, but the point is that I want all of it, however fucking much the universe has to give us, and we don't have a clue.”

He felt like an idiot. Getting the two of them so emotional over something so pointless, something so inescapably inevitable. Why couldn't he just treasure these moments and be grateful? Instead of being resentful for being just a temporary stand-in for a later _husband_ , why couldn't he just appreciate his time with her and learn to let go? Maybe it _would_ have been better if they'd never gone down this path, if they'd kept their distance and learned to want from afar, but a voice crept in, simple and sound, _Could you have really done it, had you tried?_

Of course not.

Not in a million years.

“And I _know_ it's stupid,” he raged on, now simply because his insides were bared and the silence was oppressive and he had nothing left to say. “And it's not going to change anything, but aren't I allowed to be angry about that?” Jack demanded, turning towards her. “ _Aren't I?_ ”

Elsa's eyes were glassy, but it appeared the tears had stopped. She had barely moved, but Jack felt as if the entire world had shifted.

Her voice was hushed but clear, when she lowered her eyes to her fingertips and murmured, “There is no prince.”

“Dammit, Elsa, I _know,_ okay? I'm not—I'm not questioning your feelings or anything, I just—”

“Jack,” Elsa said softly, and something about it stole the words right from his tongue. “Henrik is engaged.”

He went very, very still.

The first thought that flit through his mind, unbidden, was a realization that she _hadn't said it back_ , and the second was an understanding, quickly unfurling but loaded with countless depths and implications and—

“What?” he whispered, unable to wrap his mind around it fully. _Engaged_ , she'd said. To someone else.

Which meant that Elsa... wasn't getting married.

( _Yet_.)

“It was a particularly long letter,” Elsa told him, with gentle eyes and a gentle voice and Jack's chest was screaming, carved to ribbons and useless shreds. “I was trying to find the right moment to tell you, but I've been rather... He spoke very beautifully and apologetically,” she said soothingly, and Jack wanted to rip something apart. “I think it was all very genuine.”

“Elsa,” he said, cracking.

The corners of her lips tipped upwards, but she stayed where she was. “I knew that it would happen, given our distance. It was only a matter of time.”

 _Time_ , Jack thought, and tried to inhale, but couldn't find his lungs.

“She's a young Duchess of an eastern province, with a good fortune and a respectable family,” Elsa continued, and Jack just wanted her to _stop,_ but he couldn't ask her to, not yet. Just sat there, and listened, and let her get the words out before he crashed into her, because then the words might never make their way to the surface again. “They've known each other since before he and I were introduced. Their families tend to move within similar circles, so it was not much a surprise to anyone when the proposal was announced at an event a fortnight ago. Honestly, I'd heard rumors of the possible match even before I met Henrik, myself.” She finally lowered her hand to her lap, then smoothed a wrinkle out of her dress, very slowly. “His father is growing ill,” she added, very quiet, “And his eldest brother will soon be King. The pressure to marry was reasonable... and he'd of course made me no promises.”

That stung in a way it really shouldn't have.

“She's not quite the crown Princess of Arendelle, but she's very lovely. Even if she is so very young,” Elsa mused, and her voice sounded very far away. Jack moved closer without even realizing that he'd done so, off the desk and right to her side, gripping tight to her arms and pulling her up. “She'll make a very nice companion for him, I think, and she's very beautiful—”

And Jack merely held her, and held her, and thought of how simple and complicated everything had just become, of what an opportunity she'd just lost and a hope she'd squandered over so many years, and through it all came the utterly selfish, unforgivable, resounding thought of: _Good. Thank god._

_Thank god._

. * * * .

 


	177. - handling it -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/26/15_. I know on tumblr I said I wanted to post this chapter when I could post the following chapter too, but between all of the school work and work-life nonsense I've had to do (plus the new chapter of CTPFF and the billion other jelsa one-shots I've written), I just haven't had a chance to work on ATC at all the last two weeks. So here's the next chapter, just because. :P ~~You guys were hoping for answers, but I think I just gave you more questions. Alas.~~

 

. * * * .

_\- handling it -_

. * * * .  
  


It was weird being in the same room as Tooth and Bunny now. Just a little.

But Jack told himself to suck it up, and then told the tale with as few words as he could, determined to keep his retelling short and professional. He was here on business, and he needed advice.

“Shite,” muttered an astounded Bunny, once Jack had finished. “That's rough.”

Jack Frost deadpanned, hard and accusing; he came for advice, and this was what he got instead.

“No kidding,” Jack said flatly, annoyed at Bunny's strange distance from the situation at hand. Seriously, he'd expected a _bit_ more empathy, especially given the old Rabbit’s connection to Elsa, but then again—this _was_ the guy of eternal Hope, and his heightened optimism in the wake of an oncoming Easter was probably clouding his ability to sense Jack's general sense of misery. And Elsa's.

“Oh, Jack,” murmured Toothiana, once again the voice of reason. “I'm so sorry... how is she doing?”

Jack listlessly lifted a shrug. He still didn't know if it felt right to be talking about Elsa like this with the others... like he always had. This felt different, somehow. It seemed very personal, even for those who'd practically been inside her head for years.

Maybe he was just being weird.

“She's figuring it out,” Jack answered, trying to be vague and still tell the truth at the same time. He could have mentioned how devastated she was, and how relieved, and how for hours afterward they'd lost themselves in frenzied kisses that had left him breathless and shaking and weak, but he only mentioned, “There's still a few other options.”

“What a mess,” Bunny sighed, raking a hand through the fur at this temple, and _there_ was the emotion he'd been hoping to see, the shared pain of watching helplessly after a human. “We haven't had a marriage-problem in decades.”

Wait.

“She'll still be able to take the crown though, right?” Jack asked suddenly, seized by a grip of panic. It had happened to other princesses before—other _Assignments_. “Like—she won't have to get married to some random stranger just to become Queen?” He thought of Merida, and desperately tried to remember how her story had gone.

But Bunnymund shook his head, quelling his fears outright. “Not likely in the slightest,” he assured. “Arendelle is one of the most progressive cultures in terms of true gender equality, and much of their founding history was based on a matriarchal society. It's caused some rifts in the past, like with the Southern Isles, which values its sons... Well.” Bunny shared a sudden look with Tooth, who paused. “Most of them.”

“Uh. What?”

“Tangent,” Bunny waved a dismissive hand. “We can talk international politics another time, but for now you can rest assured that Elsa's birthright is not in any danger of being withheld for not having a husband.”

Jack's chest clenched, just briefly. “What about having a companion?”

Bunny blinked, confused. “In order to become Queen?”

Jack bit his cheek, debating. “In order... to be happy, more like.”

Bunny and Toothiana frowned, deep and concerned and sympathetic. Finally, Bunny sighed, “Well. I don't know. Depending on how Elsa feels about it... that might be a different story.”

“Does she _want_ love?” Toothiana asked curiously. At Jack's appalled expression, she quickly clarified, “I mean _romantic_ love, Jack. There are many kinds of love, and everyone experiences and values them differently. Is it possible that Elsa might be just as happy without conventional romance?” she wondered aloud, and Jack could almost _see_ her magic at work, deep within her mind; she was pulling through the archives of Elsa's oldest childhood memories, the ones lodged within her tiniest baby teeth. It was weird in more ways than one, but Jack tried furiously not to mind.

“So you're saying...?”

“It's not to say that she wouldn't want valuable connections with others, because _no_ one can argue that, but in many ways, romance has always been one of her lowest priorities. Wouldn't you agree? Due to her circumstances, her inherent temperament, and the beliefs that she's developed over time, she's always seen marriage as a means to an end. An institution to help bring kingdoms of _people_ together, rather than to simply unite two hearts. All of her Memories show that _love_ has always had a very warm and practical basis in Elsa's mind.”

Jack faltered. _Was_ that Elsa really thought? She'd said as much, time and time again, but... after everything he'd said to her, he'd thought that, maybe...

They were waiting for his response, Jack realized. He was too preoccupied with trying not to break his staff in half.

“She wants companionship,” Jack answered resolutely, trying not to let his hands shake. “Whether or not she wants any of the rest of the stuff.” Bunny stared at him thoughtfully, but Jack did not waver. “Trust me.”

There was the briefest of moments, in which something intangible hung suspended in the air, without Jack ever knowing what it was, and then it disappeared completely.

“Hmm,” Toothiana mused aloud, then her eyes flickered with color, as if the Memories were suddenly shuttered back into storage and out of immediate existence. It was a little jarring, even for Jack, but it didn't seem to faze Tooth in the slightest. She was _seeing_ him again when she looked at him, and Jack wasn't sure what he actually looked like at that moment. “Well, you would know better than I,” she acquiesced, then smiled.

 _Yeah,_ Jack tried to shrug, but his head jerked instead. It was awkward and stiff and uncomfortable.

“You know,” Bunny began, leading, “I'm sure Eugene has a few new friends in the royal court...”

Jack's eyes widened, then darkened.

“That isn't funny,” he warned, dead serious, but Bunnymund simply broke into laughter, warm and genuine.

“I warned you, mate,” he said quietly, placing a hand onto his shoulder. It didn't feel condescending, but it didn't feel like the way North might have done it either—felt more like someone was welcoming him into a club or subtly congratulating him on a rite of passage. Jack decided he hated Easter more than ever.

“Warned me of _what?_ ”

“This,” he answered simply, and suddenly Jack's Memories retreated to a late night with a dark sky and the light of ten thousand lanterns; Jack looked briefly to Toothiana, surprised, and wondered if she had something to do with that. Toothiana merely smiled, wise and knowing, like she was remembering too. Jack looked back to Bunnymund, stricken.

And Bunnymund observed, “Looks like you're handling it just about as well as the rest of us.”

. * * * .

Even days later, Jack could not help but think,  
 _If Bunnymund only_ _knew._

. * * * .

 

 


	178. - of mind -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/28/15_. Here I am! Between the end of the semester swooping in (with all of its destructive power) and a week-long trip to California ~~my favorite Jackson Overland dreamcast Daniel Sharman was in Yosemite three days after I left I am not over it~~ and general life-business, it's been a long, long time since I've had a chance to write. Thanks for sticking with me!! 
> 
> Today I will be posting four chapters! Three relatively short ones, and one longer one. :) 
> 
> **Beta'd** by **ALISON**!

 

. * * * .

_\- of mind -_

. * * * .

It was in such a state of mind that Jack returned to Arendelle and found Elsa composing a letter.

As he took his place by the window in what he hoped was companionable silence, it occurred to Jack that he did not know of anyone else to whom Elsa might have any reason to write. (Was she still writing to Flynn about the orphanages? To the kingdoms from the east? To…?)

Elsa continued to write for half an hour more, and by the time she was done, Jack was still too ashamed to ask.

. * * * .

“I met with Bunny and Tooth today,” he began, little more than a minute after Elsa's envelope was sealed. He watched her press the seal of wax to the thick paper with a simmering curiosity that couldn't help but wonder— _Henrik?_ When he looked up to her face, Elsa was already looking at him. She was amused.

“I haven't heard from Bunny in a while,” she noted, placing the finishing touches on her letter. Jack examined her fingers closely, and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to see ice float from the tips. He blinked away the thought.

“I hadn't really either, until this afternoon. Easter's right around the corner, so Bunny isn't really himself. Well. He's actually sorta _more_ himself, which is the problem.”

Elsa said nothing, but she was smiling. She was laughing at him.

 _Do you still want to get married?_ he thought, suddenly breathless. _To some other Prince or Duke or Earl who will no doubt show up sooner or later? For the sake of your kingdom—or yourself?_

“Jack?”

His head jerked up, and all of his guilty thoughts clumsily fell away. She could see right through him, and for once Jack felt relief—this might be a lot easier if she could just read his mind. So he let her.

 _Do you want children?_ his mind whorled, parted lips and cracked insides. Elsa stared at him, recognizing his intent, and a disheartened chuckle rumbled helplessly from his chest. _Could you be happy if the line of succession were entirely in Anna's care?_

_Do you want to be a mother?_

“Is it Jamie?”

Jack stilled, and for a moment he was confused. Not trusting his voice, Jack simply looked up, questioning.

“You mentioned someone by that name a week ago,” Elsa explained, strangely delicate. “Is he... is he the same individual who was once under your protection--the one who first Believed in you? Is he all right?”

And _oh_ , Jack thought, as tears pricked his eyes. Oh, how very right and how very wrong she was.

. * * * .

 


	179. - for Jamie -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/28/15_.

 

. * * * .

_\- for Jamie -_

. * * * .

 

Once Jamie was mentioned, all of Jack's other thoughts were lost; impossible questions of marriage and the future, all those could wait. With Jamie's name upon Elsa's lips, Jack was wrought with too many other questions, some forgotten and some brand new, and all of them without answer.

Elsa floated to his side, but didn’t press into his space, waiting patiently as Jack tried to straighten himself out. “I, uh,” he crooked his jaw. “It’s a long story.”

After a few moments of staring uselessly at the ground, Jack looked back to Elsa. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting--perhaps some guidance or an affirmation of some kind--but Elsa’s face was gentle and calm and caring, which was as reassuring as it was.... something else.

“I haven’t told you much about him, have I?” Jack murmured, brows furrowing tight. “Aside from the story of how we… met.”

“You have,” she answered, which surprised him, which drove the harsh, swirling whispers of _Pitch Black_ to the back of his mind. Elsa’s eyes softened at the sight of his parted lips, at his widened eyes, at his crooked mouth. Smiling, she said, “Not his most recent adventures, of course. But I’ve known his name since I was very small…” At the blank look on his face, Elsa leaned forward. “Do you remember telling me?”

For a moment, Jack refused to speak. _Do I…?_ He knew that he _had_ told her some things, once upon a time-- _careful things, safe things, handpicked and meticulously chosen things_ \--and Jack had recalled that in some distant part of her mind she’d once known that there was someone out there named Jamie who was important to him, _but?_

“I,” said Jack, and could say no more.

An awkward pause passed, and Jack Frost felt it keenly.

“It was only a matter of a few conversations,” Elsa replied gently, and in it he heard, _You don’t have to feel guilty,_ but he did. “I remember his name mostly because he was so very often on your mind in those days, and you weren’t quite as good at hiding the melancholy.” Her lips were teasing, eyes smiling, but Jack heard only, _it was just a story you told me, Jack--it’s not all that important of a memory, anyway_.

But it was.

Mouth suddenly dry, Jack bit out a lazy, distracted, “Melancholy?”

Elsa hummed delicately, taking hold of his arm. “Perhaps,” she softly agreed, and drew patterns on his skin with her fingertip.

Invisible claws reared up to squeeze at his chest. Maybe it was all this talk of Jamie and the too-fresh Memories of Monty-- _of what’d come so close to happening_ \--or maybe it was because the name _Pitch Black_ still rested in the back of his mind like a shadow, at the back of his tongue like a pile of ash, or maybe it was because _Elsa had always had the stronger memory--_

“What do you remember?” he turned to her suddenly.

Elsa started, expression unsure. “Well,” she haltingly began, “I remember a few stories you shared, if not the details--”

" _What_ do you remember?"

Elsa paused.

"Jack," she warned. "What is this about?"

Jamie wasn't much older than Elsa, now that Jack thought about it. In a few years, give or take half a decade, Jamie and Elsa would be closer in age than Jack would be with either of them- _-but then again, hadn’t they always been?_ So few years, so few Memories, and yet…

So many.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you,” he blurted--honest and fierce, wretched in its simplicity. Suffocating, and brutal.

( _The right thing to say, but the wrong choice of words._

 _The wrong moment, maybe._ )

"Jack," Elsa whispered, voice tight.

He tried to shrug it off. Elsa’s hand held tight to his wrist, refusing to let it go. Jack didn’t look at her, but he felt her, and that made it- _-the guilt, the fear, the inevitable, the ferocity_ \--easier to bear. "You know what I mean,” he whispered, nearly choking on a sudden pit of his own resentment.

And yes.

She did.

. * * * .


	180. - go on -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/28/15_. Finally! The final ten of the **1sentence** challenge, set Beta. I didn’t like this final selection as much, which I guess explains why it’s taken me so long to get to them. :P Alas.
> 
> If you're ever up for a writing challenge, take a stab at one of the sets! You can find them [here](http://1sentenceorder.livejournal.com/1531.html) at LiveJournal. I've now completed all of them except for Delta. :( Which is actually really sad, because this challenge is one of the last few ties I still have to the LiveJournal communities. :(
> 
> I wrote my first **1sentence** fic in... 2006. (I have been writing fic for a _long_ time. A long-ass time.)
> 
> (If you're curious, it was an A:TLA fic. :( You can find it [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3157219/1/No-Such-Thing-As-A-Beautiful-Goodbye). I may hold off on completing the Delta set for a little while, because then it really will be the end of an era...)

 

. * * * .

_\- go on -_

. * * * .  


**#41 – Nowhere  
** Jack slowly noticed, the bleary way one does when waking from a deep and oblivious sleep, that he couldn’t find any of the books and maps and colored photos he’d given to Elsa over the years; he asked her if she’d like him to get some new ones, and she very politely told him, “No, thank you.”

 **  
** **#42 – Neutral**  
Later that week, he was ambling about her room and asking her about her day; Elsa didn't look at him as she gingerly turned a page and carefully, casually mentioned, “Father has been teaching Anna to dance.”

 **  
** **#43 – Nuance**  
(He'd been visiting Jamie much more, yes, and he wasn't usually in Arendelle as often as he’d used to be, which meant that things would inevitably start slipping through the cracks… but this was about balance, and balance was _compromise_ \--and what was compromise without a little sacrifice?)

 **  
** **#44 – Near**  
She wouldn't sing for anyone, even now, because that was a private part of her heart that even _he_ had not yet reached, another special magic that Elsa kept locked away; Jack knew by now not to push ( _they'd gotten this far in only a decade after all—what might another decade bring?_ ) but it did not mean he didn’t want to try.

 **  
** **#45 – Natural**  
The next time that Elsa helped Jack remove his sweatshirt, and every time thereafter, the tunic beneath it quickly followed; Elsa never said a word, but in her touches he felt the truth of her intentions, her will to never let him once again dwell on the possibilities—his Memories, or their fantasies, the life that he had lost, the lives that they might have had, _together or apart_ —but instead placed her attentions on the moment of _now_ , the life he led and the way he was, the Jack that he had become.

 **  
** **#46 – Horizon**  
(And Jack did not let himself think, nor remember, nor wonder what it might have meant to be _human_ in Elsa's arms.)

 **  
** **#47 – Valiant**  
Jamie called Monty every week; no excuses, _no_ exceptions.

 **  
** **#48 – Virtuous**  
Every night Elsa slipped behind the shadows of the silk screen to change into her nightdress; most nights, Jack averted his eyes.

  
#49 – Victory  
“Looks like little ol’ Pitch has run off, now, doesn’it?” jeered Bunny in the light of the Warren’s sun, thick and bright with wholesome light, but his tone was low, and his eyes did not smile.

 **  
** **#50 – Defeat**  
Jack Frost would go on wanting Elsa— _Crown Princess, esteemed diplomat, loyal friend, decent trickster, remarkable artist and architect, hopeless pragmatic, and by far his better half—_ until the day he faded out of existence, long after the day she died; he was sure of it.

. * * * .


	181. - even after -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _4/28/15_. Last one for tonight. :) But before that, I have one quick thing! I think this is actually a little overdue, but: 
> 
> **_at the center_ is officially the most kudos'd fic for the Elsa (Frozen)/Jack Frost (Rise of the Guardians) pairing (and all of its variations) on AO3!** (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
>  **A HUGE THANK YOU goes out to anyone and everyone who has ever offered kudos, comments, reviews, tags, or positive thoughts after reading this WIP story! Another HUGE THANK YOU to anyone who has ever bookmarked this story, created special works for this story--fanart, fanvideos, playlists--or recommended this story to a friend. I love writing this story, so thank you.** :) ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

 

. * * * .  
_  
\- even after -_  

. * * * .

 

The true arrival of spring meant that (1) Bunny was off his rocker, (2) Jack itched no matter how much he tried not to, and (3) the kingdom of Arendelle was preparing for Anna's introductory ball.

The windows were open, which wouldn't have been a big deal a few weeks ago, but now there was pollen in the air and moisture from the sea and everything felt sticky in Jack's lungs. His skin felt tight and stretched, and he kept shooting blasts of cold over his arms when he thought Elsa wasn't looking (she wasn't), but it didn't mean for a second that she didn't know what he was doing.

“Don't think for a second that I don't know what you're doing, Jack Frost,” she chided, and pinned him with a look both amused and exasperated. He was lying on the seat, staring at her sideways, but the command of the message still rang in, loud and clear. “If you're uncomfortable with the weather, you know you could easily visit the North Mountain while you wait. I don't mind.”

She was in a rare mood today, and Jack was only just beginning to realize how precious it'd really become; how had he gotten so used to the quiet and heavy mood that so often permeated this room? How had he let himself sit here in silence for so long, day after day, letting the gray of rain wash over him as he waited for Elsa to resurface from her mind?

Jack broke into a grin and, without warning, reached out his staff to hook around Elsa's middle. An adorable little yelp escaped her as she stumbled forward, knees knocking into the seat, and he lifted himself up into the air to better receive her with a kiss.

“I could,” he mumbled into her open mouth, surprise and bafflement coating her expression in such a satisfying combination that it made him dizzy. He smiled against her, teeth into teeth, eyes falling closed in contentment, “But the view is much better here.”

The hand that had risen to his shoulder and neck for better balance tentatively traced the line of a tendon with its thumb, slow and precious and wondering. Jack's smile gently slipped away, mouth falling slack and loose and parting open, from which his breaths spilled shallow and short.

“You fool,” Elsa whispered fondly, then gently shoved his head away, sending him floating inches through the air. A shock of surprised laughter burst forth from his throat, and he caught himself with the hook around her waist at the last second before he hit the wall. He reeled himself back in with a devious gleam, watching hungrily as Elsa stared reproachfully down, lips curled deliciously sly as she slanted, “Your eyes weren't even open.”

Jack's mouth curved generously upwards, the half-grin to end all grins, and the shape of his staff was replaced with his arm, so that he could feel the exact moment that Elsa's breath hitched against his hold. He spanned his fingers over the curve of her hip, pressing into fabric and warmth and softness. “I don't look with just my eyes,” he pointed out, then placed a kiss to the hollow of her collarbone, slow and lingering. For emphasis.

Her sigh ghosted along his cheek, ruffling his hair, and Jack felt the familiar weight and pull settling low in his belly. Surely Elsa's appointment could wait...?

A knock on the door told him _no_.

“Balls,” Jack hissed, and Elsa laughed, shocked and surprised and unbidden. She untangled herself from his grasp, though not without a tell-tale struggle for the sake of _play_ and good humor, and went to receive Olga at the door. After a lengthy moment, in which Jack fruitlessly tried to calm his racing heart, he followed.

She was laughing under her breath as he caught up to her, dropping his staff with a clatter and catching her around the middle, pressing kisses to her neck in the best form of delay. Breathless and smiling, Elsa mouthed silent warnings and wide-eyed scoldings into the side of his face, which did nothing if not encourage him. She pried his fingers off her stomach without much struggle, but only because she held onto them, and allowed him a single, toe-curling kiss before she turned her undivided attention to the door, neutral and blank-faced and even-keeled. Jack stood panting to the side, marveling.

“Oh,” said Elsa, once she'd opened the door. “Mother.”

Jack's chest spasmed at the name, and his eyes flew towards the figure at the door. Indeed, the Queen was at her doorstep, holding a tray of pins and tapes and tools fit for a seamstress. Jack's eyes nervously flew back to Elsa.

“Good morning, dear,” said the Queen, brimming with a fondness that could be barely contained, but with a stiffness that betrayed the magnitude of her feelings. Or, perhaps, exposed them completely. “I'm afraid Olga is otherwise preoccupied this afternoon, so I've come to offer my assistance.”

Jack was still staring blankly, trying to process this turn of events, when Elsa had already jumped four steps ahead. “And all of the other ladies-in-waiting?” she wondered.

The Queen, graceful as ever, had the decency to show a bit of chagrin; the gleam in her eye, however, was a shocking new twist that made Jack Frost think that perhaps the Queen was not as placidas he'd thought. Jack had always simply assumed that Elsa's streak of cleverness was singularly innate, if not bolstered by his own poor influence, but that _look_ on the Queen's face was awfully familiar, and— _that_ thought, right there, was bringing back a slew of _other_ memories that were on an entirely different level of discomfort that Jack did not ever want to consider again. Ever.

“They are all of them busy with the preparations for the ball,” the Queen politely replied, apologetic but not, and Jack's ears perked with renewed interest. _You sent them away_ , he understood, then cursed. _You sly Queen._

“Well, fuck,” said Jack, without realizing it, and started quite suddenly, worried that Elsa would be mad for distracting her. She, for her part, was ignoring him completely; her eyes were pointedly on her mother.

“Thank you for taking the trouble to bring me the supplies,” she politely thanked, then slowly extended her hands out for the tray between them. Jack watched the movements with a tightness scraping at his chest; how many different subtleties could be packed into such a simple exchange? The deliberate slowness in Elsa's movements, the pale skin of her bare, cautious, confident hands. The Queen's grasp on the handles of her tray, not white-knuckled but tense, shoulders all stiff and resolute. They were like strangers. They were mother and daughter, reaching across an ever-widening divide, always missing sight of one another, just shy of true understanding. Jack swallowed as Elsa's hands hovered in the air, waiting patiently for the tray, while the Queen made no move to pass it along.

“Actually,” said the Queen very gently, with an air of unfailing politeness that was still laced with the subtle press of regal command, a perfect precision of diplomacy and authority and entreaty that Jack had only ever heard one other person in all the worlds employ. “I was rather hoping—”

“Thank you, Mother,” said Elsa, with far less grace, but no less authority. “But I'm rather appreciative of this opportunity to further hone my skills as a seamstress in the making.”

The Queen's face was an unreadable mask that Jack suddenly hated, that churned his stomach and sickened his heart; the sensation deepened, once he realized that it was not the Queen he was angry with.

It was Elsa.

“If you're certain,” was the only protest that the Queen bothered to make, either from too many years of trying, or simply not knowing what else to do, and Jack felt heat in his veins that made the itch in his skin at least five times worse. Elsa wouldn't give.

“I'm certain,” she replied with a smile, tight and forced with pleasure, and there was no grace and no warmth in the cold light of her eyes, and Jack hated it, _hated_ that this was what these women had become—were becoming—that this was the shredded scraps of a relationship that might remain ever broken. That he couldn't fault Elsa for it, even in the same moment that he _did_ , that he maybe shouldn't have, but then again, maybe the Queen wasn't the only one who was at a loss _._

By the time Elsa's mother left, the Queen seemed but a distant memory in Elsa's mind. She was not humming or anything of the sort, but her body seemed to thrum with a strange sort of happiness, like a petty victory manifesting in the glow of one's skin. Jack stalled uncomfortably near the door, unmoving, as Elsa strolled easily to the far side of the room, and began arranging a small table behind the partition, where she then lay out her tray of tools.

“You didn't want to talk to her?” Jack asked, because asking careful questions usually turned out better than making outright observations, which more often than not sounded much more like outright accusations. Not that his questioning was much better, always with just a smidge too much implication to be perfectly neutral, but...

Elsa looked up at him, where he was lingering awkwardly near the door, and regarded him with a perfectly calm and assessing look, with just a shade of accusation all her own. He didn't wither beneath it, like usual, but instead stared back, direct and curious, and this time it was Elsa who averted her eyes.

“For the first time in two weeks, she makes the effort to travel down the three sets of halls it takes to reach my room,” she replied evenly, eyes remaining carefully on the measures of tape, on the small roll of parchment meant for notes and numbers. “If she wanted to be close to me, she need not invent a reason.”

Jack wasn't so sure about that, but he saw Elsa's point. _She wanted to see you_ , Jack almost pointed out, the words lodged tightly at the back of his throat. _She misses you, very badly._

 _You miss her, too_.

But Jack knew well enough by now that such things did not need saying.

He tried to push down the hollow feeling of discomfort that had settled heavily into his gut, the dissatisfying sensation of _loose ends_ and _unresolved stories_ , and instead turned his focus to the present; there was still plenty of time yet to find ways to mend things between Elsa and her mother.

“So,” Jack ambled closer to the partition, then picked up his staff from where it'd fallen to the floor. He glanced to the window and the clear, blue skies beyond, knowing that he should be getting on and finding winter, somewhere. He'd been thinking of paying another visit to Jamie. Maybe he'd kick up another Easter frost? It'd be worth the the fuss.

“So?” Elsa's voice called back, muffled only slightly by the screen between them. He could hear her fiddling with the tin of pins and the tapes, as well as the swish of fabric.

“So, what—you're just gonna make your own gown for the ball, then? Sewing and stitching and measuring and all?”

“Well, I'd not thought to invite your estimable sewing expertise,” Elsa quipped, her rare mood of playfulness completely undeterred. Jack forced himself to loosen up.

“Ha, ha,” he called back, thick and heavy with his favorite brand of sarcasm.

“I hadn't forgotten about your usefulness entirely,” Elsa reassured, then poked her head around the the side of the partition with almost gleeful deviousness. Jack stared blankly at the utter glow she radiated, eyes all ashine and smile all bright, and he was still blinking at her, dolefully, when she dipped a brow and inquired, “Are your hands feeling steady, Jack?”

Oh.

He didn't realize that he'd swallowed so audibly until Elsa laughed brightly at his speechlessness, and then quickly ducked back behind the partition. _Oh,_ Jack thought, once more. After only a brief second of stillness, in which Jack was quite frozen to the spot, he made after her.

Jamie and winter and freak Easter snowstorms could wait.

When he rounded the corner of the screen, Elsa was standing with her back to him, her chin resting patiently on her shoulder. His mouth was suddenly very dry, and his eyes caught sight of the long row of buttons that swept down her spine, usually obscured from view by a jacket. Jack flicked his gaze to hers, in question, and felt his heart melt when she smiled.

“Should I do it on my own?” she whispered at his delay, light and playful and warning. Jack jerked a step forward, then got a hold of himself, and eased his steps into something more controlled, until he was right behind her, one shoulder brushing hers. It still sent his insides tumbling, when she reacted as strongly as he; a muted gasp, a fluttered sigh, a dip to her shoulders or neck, tiny movements that spoke volumes. He could live in them.

Jack slowly lifted a hand to the collar of her dress, and rested deft fingers over the uppermost button. He pressed his lips to the shell of her ear, to the softness of her hair—so light, so treasured, once so untouchable and foreign—and whispered, deep and amused and promising, “Absolutely not.”

The first button slipped undone between his fingers, and Jack became all too aware of the strain against his cock, urgent and nearly painful, of the chaotic, screaming staccato of his heartbeat; he would definitely be returning to the North Mountain, after this.

“And what am I supposed to do for all the times you are not here?” Elsa asked, growing breathless, the sounds from her words getting lost in laughter. Jack's fingers traveled further down her spine, undoing each button with endless care, as his mouth found the bared skin of her neck beneath the twist of her hair. His other hand found the small of her waist, where it rested gingerly and then _not,_ while his other hand was busy at work. At first he could not think to answer her question, so focused on her skin and his task was he, that what he eventually breathed into her neck was, “Don't.”

“Don't?” Elsa laughed disbelievingly, then gasped as Jack nipped at the nape, his mouth open and wet and loving, as his fingers reached the small of her back and the fabric at her collar began to fall away, exposing more smooth skin underneath. He'd never undressed her before. Had never seen this skin exposed in any nightgown, in any day dress. Jack had only ever seen the bare breadth of her shoulders once before—over the ridge of this same partition, however many ages ago. And now he could taste them.

Jack's fingers grew clumsy with a button at the dip in her back, and when he pressed further into the skin to try to wrench it from its hold, Elsa's body arched against him, thrusting her neck and her collarbone into his chin and against his open mouth, where he kissed and he licked and he craved every inch of her skin. The dress was falling low on her shoulders, and when Jack lowered his eyes to the swell of her chest, he saw the first signs of the highest ridge of a bodice, and a force of imaginings hit him with such strength that his mind spasmed, that his body clenched and his belly tugged, and a groan exhaled fiercely, unreservedly into the welcome expanse of her skin. Elsa breathed heavily against him, chest falling and rising with slow, barely-controlled sucks of air, and Jack choked out a broken sound as his fingers flew down the length of her back, no longer careful, no longer deft, but simply pulling and wanting and clumsy in their quest. His kisses became open-mouthed streaks against her skin—the point of his nose pressing into her jaw, over her throat and ear and collar—and when Elsa's hands reached behind to take hold of his hips, he bucked forward without warning, with abandon, his muffled gasps lost only to hers.

“Don't,” he repeated, broken and breathless, when his fingers at last reached the final button at the hard press of her tailbone, where the bodice underneath met a flare of skirts, firm and soft beneath his fingers. He swallowed hard as he moved his mouth to her ear, cold but so much hotter, and trailed his knuckles gingerly up the crevice of her spine, all the places the bodice did not hide. So much skin, just beneath the falling tapestry of her open dress, hanging loosely off the middle of her arms. From shoulder blade to neck, she was naked before him, and Jack's forehead fell heavy onto bone. His eyes were closed, and his voice was rough, and his mouth was raw when he pleaded, “Don't do this without me again.”

Her laugh became a heady gasp when he bit down on the juncture between neck and collar, gentle but not, and sucked. When he opened his eyes, the bodice at her front was clearly visible now, as well as the swell of her breasts peeking from beneath its restraining hold, and Elsa's hips were still ground into his, her hands wound and clutching tightly the the fabric around his, bringing him closer or _her_ closer it did not matter. Jack's knees almost buckled. The hand on her waist reached out blindly for the wall of the partition, steadying his footing as Elsa leaned further back into him, lifting her chest as the dress fell lower, and with a strangled sound Jack looked down, panting and staring and slowly slipping out of his mind.

He nocked his cheek into the hollow of her throat and watched the swell of her chest as he slid his hands up the curve of her back, brushing knuckles over blades and the uppermost ridges of her shoulders. Jack splayed his fingers over the shelves of her collar, and pressed gentle and silent marks of emotion into her skin—in kisses and nips and deliberate touches—as he lowered his hands over the curve her shoulders, and slipped the sleeves from her arms.

The dress fell the floor in a soft pool of fabric, and Jack watched in awe as the bodice became visible in its entirety. A soft cream in color, stiff and soft in different places, formed tightly and perfectly to the sleek of her silhouette. For a moment, Jack could only stare.

He was unprepared, then, for when Elsa took it upon herself to reach over to the tray and retrieve the long stretch of ribbon-tape from her tools; at first not having the slightest clue as to what she was doing, Jack latched onto her all the more tightly, more on pure instinct and a complete and utter unwillingness to let her go than for any sense of rational thought. Elsa laughed lightly at him, enamored and amused, which he still did not yet comprehend, and still not when Elsa shifted in his arms—Elsa, half-naked in nothing but her bodice and under-skirts—stretched a length of the tape between them, directly below his face. Or above her breasts, depending one’s viewpoint. Jack was only concerned with the latter.

It was very difficult to understand, pressed as she was against him.

“We have a job to do,” she whispered, full of play and teasing and _light_. Jack only stared.

 _I love you,_ he wanted to say. _You’re beautiful_.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, half without meaning to. Immediately, he was embarrassed, and yet he was unashamed; Elsa deserved to be told.

Obviously having enjoyed the power of the upper hand, Elsa’s eyes widened at his words. Perhaps at the suddenness, or the sincerity—or both. Elsa _did_ indeed deserve to be told, and she often was; by many people, for many reasons, in many layers of meaning, at many a time in her life. She’d probably been called beautiful a thousand times, in a hundred different ways.

 _But_ , Jack thought, admiring the spread of color that bloomed over her cheeks, _maybe not like this_.

He kissed her then, before she could deign to speak, because he wanted her to know its truth—or at least, perhaps, a sliver of it. _You’re beautiful_ , he told her, and she was: her beauty included her youth and her loveliness, her body and her charms, her magic and her mind and her mischief—all so inexorably intertwined—and she would be beautiful forever, even if, one day—

She would not be so young anymore.

Jack pulled away, but only so far as to look into her eyes. _Forever_ , he thought. Even after she’d lost her youth, or perhaps her independence— _or perhaps_ , he swallowed, _her sense of memory_ ; _her_ mind—she would be forever lovely, forever strong and powerful and _magic_ , even after old age had taken its toll in her bones and her skin, on her face and in her beautiful hair. _I will be here_ , he promised, he _promised_ , even if not aloud.  
  


( _For Jack was still in some ways very selfish,  
_ _who believed in the power of names and speech and summons,  
_ _who did not dare tempt the Future to hurry faster onward,  
_ _simply for having been called_.)

  
“Jack,” she whispered, and it cut through him. Perhaps, at last, she was reading his thoughts; she was, at least, reading his pain. 

His next kiss was somber, but spoke of centuries: for all of the ones that had passed, and all of the ones that he would spend, incurably, remembering her.

. * * * .

Jack was a dutiful attendant, after.

Whether or not any of his measurements were accurate remained to be seen,  
but Elsa did not seem to much care. Jack had never had a mind for numbers, anyway. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent in Elsa’s chambers,  
and his entire evening was spent in the company of the blizzards  
in the highest peak of the coldest region in the deepest tundra  
of the North Mountain.

. * * * .

 


	182. - sightless mare -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/3/15_. Well, my summer semester starts tomorrow, which means my workload is going right back to where it was a few weeks ago. :( At least I have another three chapters to post tonight! Hoping these will hold me over until I get some more time on my hands.

 

 

. * * * .

_\- sightless mare -_

. * * * .

Anna was brilliant.

She wasn't some sort of dancing prodigy or anything, and—from what Jack could gather during her lessons—her technique was only _mostly_ proper. What Anna lacked in technical form, however, she made up for in enthusiasm and light. She was so earnest in her movements, the way she swayed and swished across the floor, any missteps were easily missed. On the other hand, the King had no trouble noticing the way all the servants grew idle and observant by the door—by undusted portraits and unswept floors—and he similarly had no trouble inviting every single one of them to partake in the lesson: out in the open brightness of the large drawing room with the windows facing the fjord, Anna was very shortly in no want of partners. With floor-to-ceiling panes letting in the ocean's breeze and all of floral scents it had picked up along the way, with all the furniture pushed carefully and thoughtlesslyagainst the rosemaling walls, the many servants of the Castle of Arendelle were suddenly in attendance at their very own private, impromptu ball—dressed in aprons and caps, clapping hands and glowing smiles, and the kind of rare delight that only comes by pleasant surprise.

Once word had spread through the castle, the Queen soon joined with trays of afternoon tea with her diligent ladies-in-waiting. She arrived with pinked cheeks and brightness in her eyes, and the King whisked his daughter across the room in sweeping turns and gentle dips, set to the enchanting sound of music and merry clapping and laughter. Someone brought a fresh pitcher of lemonade. Everyone remarked on the deliciousness of the biscuits. Anna glowed.

Jack sat back on the far window ledge and bounced his foot in time with the music, smiling and laughing and trying very not to think too strongly of how easily happiness could be overcome by guilt.

. * * * .

Kristoff's new sled was being put to hard and harrowing work, no doubt, though its appearance displayed no such thing. Kristoff took great pride in its fresh sheen and dark grain and, even after so many weeks in the cold (in the harsh winds and glaring sunlight, with heavy loads and sharp corners of ice), his sled still somehow looked almost new. It would be some number of years before it was paid in full, of course, before it was actually _his_ , but to anyone who saw the sled, it was clear: the sled was Kristoff's most prized possession, truly.

Sven's most prized possession was his new bundle of carrots... which Jack promptly learned when he tried to snag one, and instead ended up staring directly into the eyes of a rather sentient, talkative, rather _observant_ reindeer, whose dropping jaw promptly discharged the half-bitten carrot from his disbelieving mouth.

Jack winked, and fled, and even left behind the damn carrot, but Kristoff was understandably very confused at Sven's strange and skittish behavior for the rest of the day.

. * * * .

At dusk, Jack flew past the street corner where Jamie now lived, content that all was well. Jamie had spoken at length with Monty in the phone, and more so with Pipa, and Jack was looking forward to rest, to Arendelle, and to Elsa.

And then a black shadow appeared beneath the tree of Jamie's front yard, in the shape of a sightless mare: as still as stone, built of dark wisps and whispering hisses, with wordless, empty sounds as chilling as any dark lullaby—and then vanished, completely.

“Fuck,” said Jack, with feeling.

. * * * .

 


	183. - never before -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/3/15_.

 

. * * * .

\- _never before_ -

. * * * .

“He's warning us,” Toothiana whispered, staring at the vastmap below. It was spread before them like a large blanket, shifting and changing at every moment with light and movement and altering shapes. One world, then the next—then back again, with distant whispers of laughter hanging in the air. “Or playing with us, rather.”

“He hasn't gone after any Memories in so long,” Toothiana added, translating aloud for Sandy, to whom Jack had admittedly not been paying any attention. His eyes flicked up to Toothiana's strained expression, with his own hardened gaze and firmed line of mouth. His shoulders ached from holding his arms so stiffly crossed all night. Toothiana's voice was so tight it was nearly brittle, when she quietly said, “It's all been just for show, until now. He didn't care about _those_ Memories.” Toothiana's eyes stared blankly at the map. “He only wanted to show us that he could. That he could steal them.”

“They were just a bonus,” Jack reiterated, rubbing at his temple with pinching fingers. “An added perk.”

North's sigh carried an additional weight. “He means to go after the boy,” he stated solidly, grave and certain. “Jamie, Pipa, Monty... all the rest. There is no question.”

Jack's head shook, stern and stiff, of its own accord. “Jamie doesn't even Believe in us any more,” he stated flatly. “None of them do.”

“Doesn' matter,” Bunny nearly sighed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It's pure, unadulterated revenge. You know how important those Memories are—even if the magic behind them is gone. The loss would destroy them.”

“Not Jamie,” Jack whispered, before he could help it. Bunny hesitated.

“No,” he said quietly in return. “Maybe not. He's got enough light in him that maybe he'd be able to withstand it—even if only for a while. But not the others.”

 _Monty_.

“So that's it,” Jack grimly announced. “Pitch has made his intentions clear. Jamie's been marked as the major target, and now we shift our focus to protecting his crew at all costs.” _Even if Pitch tries to distract us with more Lost Teeth._

“Not... exactly.”

Jack swiveled his gaze up to Bunny's, cocking a suspicious brow. Bunnymund, for some reason, wasn't looking at him. The others had taken on a rather unusual stance as well. Like they were all hiding something.

Or thinking the same thing.

“What?” he demanded.

Toothiana's focus sharpened, but her gaze was still a thousand miles away. Perhaps even farther. “Maybe...” she trailed off, and Bunny began to nod. North raised himself up to new heights.

Jack's skin prickled.

“ _What?_ ” Jack repeated, as his chest tightened with a sudden, unfamiliar clenching. As a thrill of fear and anticipation and, and—and _intuition_ shot up his spine. He felt dizzy from it. Never in his entire—a feeling of this magnitude had never before crossed his—

“There might be a way,” Toothiana rushed out, darting her bright eyes back to North. The feeling latched onto the air itself, and Jack's lungs seized with the novelty of it, with the strength of a sudden sense of _certainty_ , of clarity. _Is this—is this what the others are always—?_

“We have never tried before,” replied North, but in his posture and tone there was confidence, was _assurance—_ even if not of success, but of _opportunity—_ and, “It would not hurt us now.”

Jack's teeth were literally on edge. “ _What_ would?”

“We could bring them back,” said Bunny, and the very words prickled the air, over Jack's skin and hair. “Remind them to defend themselves, the way they did before.”

“I don't—what are you talking about? How?”

 _It's never been done,_ Sandy considered, but there was no sense of discouragement in his demeanor, or dissuasion in his eyes. _But a spark like Jamie's is rare. If it was strong enough to remain lit even through the darkest of his age—_

“Who's to say it can't be reignited?” Bunny finished, his accent as strong and as thick as his optimism.

Jack's heart beat rapidly in his chest. “What are you saying?” he demanded, suddenly breathless. “Are you saying that Jamie could—that we might _actually_ be able to make Jamie—”

“ _Believe_ ,” breathed Toothiana, with a shocked and surfacing smile. “Again.”

Jack couldn't move.

“Well,” said North, after a long and poignant silence. The possibilities were astounding. “It is more convenient for battles to be fought by the attacked, themselves, no? Saves time for the protectors, to keep on protecting the things that cannot protect themselves?”

Jack's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Was this—? Had _he_ —? This feeling in his veins—in his heart and in his magic, it was all coming together, and blending and mingling and—he could _feel_ the others in ways he'd never known, their presence and their personalities in such finely nuanced, intangible—

“Very important question,” pondered North, with utmost seriousness. “How would young Jamie feel about wielding sword?”

Jack laughed so hard, he cried.

. * * * .


	184. - no answer -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _5/3/15_. Please check the end notes for trigger warnings!

 

. * * * .

- _no answer_ -

. * * * .

He couldn't wait to tell Elsa—to tell her everything—or maybe not everything, but okay, _mostly_ everything. He'd give anything for Jamie to Believe again—for him to rise up, to _fight_ , to stand up against Pitch once more, like the old days—

Jack laughed into the wind, sudden and free, and swerved into the oncoming current, just to feel the dip in his stomach when he was tossed by the sky. He felt sick— _gloriously_ , like riding the rays of the sun—or the sunset, rather—and giddy with Bunny's stupid, wonderful power of Hope. Not bad for a week before Easter, to be honest. Jack hadn't felt this good in ages. Not since—

Jack's bare feet pressed down onto the smooth wooden pane of Elsa's window, but the feeling barely registered. He was light as air, and twice as free. Twice as fast? He wasn't making sense, but that was okay, because nothing else was making sense anymore—Jamie could _Believe_ again?—but that only meant that everything else was falling into place. That things were shifting and rearranging themselves in Jack Frost's world, piecing themselves together in a new order—a world where children could grow up, and forget, and learn to Believe again, where more children might never forget at all. Where more children might be like Elsa, who could hold onto their faith and trust for years, for decades longer, _forever—_

But Jack was getting ahead of himself. He'd come tonight to see Elsa, and to share his happiness, and to join in hers. Things weren't always fine and dandy in Arendelle, but she was young and healthy and alive, and her parents sucked but her will was strong, and even if she couldn't practice the magic in her veins—even if she _wouldn't—_ it didn't mean that there wouldn't come a day where Elsa threw all caution to the wind and showed herself—showed the whole world—just what she was capable of. Show her parents. Show _Anna_ , show everyone, show _Jack_.

“Elsa!” Jack called, for Elsa was in her dressing room, the one she hardly ever used. He'd only ever seen it a handful times, because it was boring and _also_ because it led to the bath, to which Jack was under _strict_ prohibitions not to enter—but Jack was high on Hope and good weather, and the sheer idea of Jamie looking him in the eye again. It was. He couldn't properly describe. Impossible. Impossibly, _impossibly_ —

“Elsa!” he stepped forward, bolstered by the imaginary clouds beneath his feet and the rush of affection surging through his chest. Elsa knew about Jamie, knew that he meant _so much_ to Jack, even if she couldn't know the whole story. She would want to hear this. “Elsa!”

He received no answer.

The high was so strong that it was not until some moments had passed that Jack began to feel the dread.

A small sound from the dressing room set Jack's senses on high alert. Without meaning to, his fist clenched more tightly over the ridges of his staff. Slowly, Jack stepped forward; his adrenaline spiked into a fizzy, wordless swarm of thoughts and possibilities, but his mind was otherwise startlingly blank. Calm.

“Elsa?” Jack treaded lightly, shifting a purposeful step forward. He reached for the handle of the dressing room door. It was locked.

Jack stared, uncomprehending, at his hand on the handle that would not move. What could...?

“Jack?” came a voice from inside, brittle and steady and horribly tight, with a such a sense of blind hope that Jack might have gasped. That his spine might have snapped in two.

“Elsa, the door is locked,” he answered steadily, and tried to keep his head. Belatedly, he realized that he had not said, _Elsa, I'm here_. He had not asked, _Are you all right?_ All he could see was the door, and its handle, and _why is the door locked?_

Another small sound crept from the crack under the door, pitiful and jarring and wrapping itself horribly around Jack's stomach. It lodged in his throat. Jack jerked his hand with impossible strength against the handle, sudden even to himself, but it would not budge.

“Elsa,” Jack called through the wooden barrier, as his voice took on an edge of something akin to the beginnings of panic. But she was safe—he thought. She was talking, she was alive, she was—she was just— “It won't open,” he declared, with fierce implications, with a _hint_ of accusation, with too many questions for Jack to voice. _Why won't it open?_ Jack tried to yank the handle, tried to twist and push and pull, but it would not yield and _why the_ hell _is the door locked?_

A sharp cry sent Jack's blood running cold, sent freezing ice into his too-still bones, and once his eyes had widened and his ears caught the sounds of muffled sobbing beyond the reaches of the wooden door, full-out panic made itself known to the raging heartbeat in his chest, to the worthless breaths scraping their way to his lungs.

“Elsa,” he called again, but his voice cracked. “I'm right outside, okay? I'm trying to open the door,” he narrated, kept talking, tried to give Elsa something to focus on. He could hear her crying. Jack's throat welled with something awful, and as his fingers fumbled uselessly with the ornate designs on the useless handle, it only just then occurred to Jack how very cold the metal was beneath his hands.

“ _Elsa!_ ” Jack called, trying to stay calm but raising his voice helplessly, without meaning to, whether he was desperate for her to hear him or for the door to give way, or both— “Elsa, I can't open the door. I need you to—I need for you to come closer to the door and—”

“I can't open it,” he heard, through unsteady breaths and heaving sobs. “I tried. I tried. It's—it's frozen shut—”

“ _Fuck,”_ Jack hissed, and desperately pressed himself against the door, wrenching the handle with all his might. His hands were rubbing raw, but Jack barely felt it—he pressed his hands abruptly to the flat of the door, to the panels of wood. He could _feel_ the ice behind them, lodged in the cracks and in the inner workings of the metal lock, and even further, reaching over the walls and floor...

“Elsa, I need you to try to change the ice. I can feel it, but it's hard for me to do it myself, on this side without seeing it, okay? Can you hear me, Elsa? I need you to change it into snow—make it lighter, so you can—”

“I _tried_. Jack, I already _tried_ ,” she rasped, horribly, and Jack's forehead fell to the coolness of the wooden door. He felt like he was going to throw up. “I've been trying for hours, I can't—I just can't _feel_ it right, it's only making things _worse—_ ”

“Elsa! Elsa, listen to me! If you keep talking like that you're only going to make it harder to focus!”

“Jack, it's _spreading_ , I can feel it, I can—”

“Elsa, _listen to me!_ Elsa, can you hear me?” Jack slammed the heel of his hand against the door, then again, then _again._ “Do you hear me? Elsa, take a _deep_ breath, take a deep breath and—”

“Jack, it's not—you don't _understand_ —I can't—!”

“ _Goddammit_ ,” Jack hissed, loud and terrified, slamming his fist against the door, and pressed both hands against it, scrunched his eyes shut. The ice was right there, on the other side—wild and untamed and sharp in purity, more intricate and complex than anything he'd ever created before, than anything he'd ever thought to imagine. _He'd_ _forgotten_ —he'd nearly forgotten the feel of Elsa's ice against his senses, the sharp prickle of her magic—it was so dynamic and changing, so unique, almost _alive—_

—and then he latched onto it, snatched it through the stiff and awful barrier of organic wood, held it tight to his being, like digging claws into the woodwork, pulling back at first only tendrils and pieces then altogether the ongoing stretch of icy lace. He held it, tight and forceful, his stomach clenching all the while, and through gritted teeth Jack called it back, forcefully restrained and gently persuaded it to creep back, to dissolve and retreat and reshape itself into his core, to seep into the nothingness of but a chill in the air, until the most of it had been sucked from the room, swirled impossibly into his hands, his face, his chest with such _burning_ cold, like half his soul had been sucked out instead, to make room.

Winded, and coughing, Jack unclenched his jaw and blinked bleary eyes up at the door he was leaning so heavily against. His fingertips dragged against the painted wood, just a fraction, as Jack struggled to push himself more steadily onto his feet. His body felt weak, strangely. He'd—he'd never really tried something like that before. Releasing the ice _out_ , yes—of course, but—taking the ice _in?_ He hadn't even absorbed that much of it. Most of it had been lost to the air.

Jack took a ragged breath and braced himself against the door, lifted himself to standing at last. The room was cold, but no longer unnaturally so. But _he_ —

He flexed his fingers, determined to ignore the strange feeling in his hands. The uneasy sensation in his stomach. His swallow was thick, and his eyes were sharp, but his mind was still fuzzy—

“Jack?” Elsa whispered, brokenly, from the other side.

His hand grappled with the handle, but after the final few clicks of a turn to a right, the door gave way, and opened to the dressing room beyond. Jack's jaw hung slack as he stumbled forward, eyes darting ungracefully at all points across the room. The walls looked good as new. The floor, unscathed. The air was cold, but no colder than an evening of springtime, of a dark room with no windows, of—

“ _Jack_ ,” whispered a voice, far behind the hinges, and Jack let the door fly open as he tripped forward, eyes searching. He found her immediately, curled into a ball on the floor, dressed only in a robe, next to a water-filled tub.

He staggered his way towards her, towards her tear-stained cheeks and her gleaming eyes, towards all of the apologies and misery therein. Jack fell to the floor just a few short feet in front of her, and crawled the rest of the way. His hands cradled her face in earnest, eager shock, but no words would come.

“I couldn't,” Elsa whispered, and her lips caught the edge of his thumb. Jack had lost the breath in his lungs, so he had nothing to still her, to quiet her whisperings. “I didn't mean to—anything I did to try to fix it only made it worse, and I couldn't—I couldn't—”

“It's okay,” he hushed, pressing his forehead to hers, weak-kneed and weak-armed and weak-shouldered. His head felt light. “It's—it's okay.” _It's not your fault_ , he meant to say, but— “You're fine. You're okay. I'm—it's fine now.”

A sharp, quiet cry spilled against his mouth, and Jack fought it back with a quick kiss to Elsa's lips. He couldn't feel his mouth, even. It felt like he was detached from his whole body, too filled with adrenaline and lingering shock and and fuck, and _fuck—_

“You're okay,” he repeated, but it maybe wasn't just for Elsa, and maybe it wasn't just for himself, and maybe things really weren't okay at all.

. * * * .

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw:** mentions of panic attack.


	185. - didn't tell -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _6/26/15_. Hello there. This last month has been particularly difficult, not only because of the huge transitions that always happen at the end of the school year, but also because of some fandom-related issues that have made the idea of writing really challenging. Even in the rare moments that I found I had time to write over these last few weeks, I definitely did not have the desire to. Plagiarism can do that to a writer.
> 
> I have dealt with many cases of plagiarism over the course of at least half a decade, but this one really cut the deepest. Since then, I have done a lot of research on legal rights, I’ve learned a lot about my options, and I’ve received a lot of lovely support. I feel more prepared and more informed to handle this again in the future—which, unfortunately, I may very well have to—and I feel much more experienced and knowledgeable about about the kinds of steps to take when it does.
> 
> This chapter has been written for almost a month, and I’m relieved to say that I finally feel like I’m in a place where I actually want to post it.
> 
> There are many other really positive, happy, and rewarding things going on in my life—and for many of you who have been with me since the start of this story, you may be surprised to remember where I was when it began, and surprised to learn just how far I’ve come—but I will save those milestones for another time. This update is long overdue, and I’m so grateful to you all for your patience and understanding.
> 
> Thanks, all. <3
> 
>  **tw:** mentions of panic attack/descriptions of aftermath.

 

. * * * . 

_\- didn’t tell -_

. * * * .

 

Eventually, Elsa's sobs died down. And then, for a while, there was only quiet.

Sometime after, Jack slowly lifted himself from the floor and pulled Elsa to her feet. He led her into the other room to the chair by the fireplace, where he carefully eased her down.

Elsa said nothing.

She didn't even look at him and, in the messiest corners of his heart, Jack wanted to say something, desperately. But nothing came to mind.

So instead he gently guided her head back against the cushion, and placed her hands in her lap. Jack made a fire in the middle of springtime **,** mostly for something to do with his hands. He lowered himself onto the floor on unsteady fingers and shaky knees, settled himself at her feet, and waited.

Elsa sat tall in her chair, shoulder blades pressed back to the seat; chin lifted, but eyes cast down. Her brow still gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, shining along the line of her golden hair. Her smooth, high cheeks were splotched with uneven patches of bright, angry red. The delicate skin at her eyes was swollen and wet, still red and glazed with hours— _hours?_ —of tears, dark eyelashes all twisted and crumpled together. The blue of her eyes, surrounded by so much red, seemed so much steelier, so much stonier than before. The harsh hues—blue, red, _black_ —were sharp against the fierce paleness of the rest of her, against skin made almost unnatural with translucence lent by sweat and exhaustion and twilight. 

Jack had never quite seen her like this, before.

( _Afterwards, yes, when the panic was gone—  
__but never_ during _, never_ while _, never around, never enough—_ ) 

The adrenaline was gone, he realized, and so was his strength. Her panic, and his strength, and all of the power it had surged within him, it was all gone and the new magic— _new magic??_ —had left his limbs, had slipped out of him, _all of it gone_ , and that was when Jack Frost realized just how dead he really felt.

 _(You’re an old man, Jack_ ,  
said a voice that sounded like  
no one’s in particular,  
 but Jack hated hearing anyway.) 

Never had Jack Frost felt quite like this—not even in his darkest days of loneliness, not even after the battle with Pitch. ( _Is something wrong?_ he wondered, just before a flash of memory split wide open, fresh from the mention of battle: North leaning heavily against his sword, Bunny stumbling over pebbles-suddenly-too-big, Tooth losing her feathers.) His lungs spasmed in his chest.

“What's going on?” he whispered, perhaps to Elsa, or perhaps to the universe in general, and looked up. The weight of his knees fell heavily against the cradle of his arms, and in his shoulders was the brunt weight of Elsa's world, of all the burden he tried not to let her carry.

( _How much else  
was she still carrying?_ )

At first, Elsa did not answer. Jack didn't press, but his eyelids were heavy, and his heart was pressed tight to its cage, and Jack Frost had never really done well with silence.

When at last Jack felt that he might be about to do something drastic, Elsa shifted her jaw. A tiny muscle jumped in her neck as she swallowed, and Jack watched carefully, transfixed. In some ways, he still felt disconnected from his body, from her room, from the slight chill that always surrounded him. Even his words felt distant, as faraway as the slight shifting of shadows on Elsa's cheek. Jack realized then how unnaturally still his body had become; it didn’t feel right, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

“It's been getting worse,” Elsa whispered, staring at the flames. 

The skin at the back of Jack's neck prickled.

“How long?” he rasped, trying to swallow past the razors in his throat.

Elsa's mouth pinched, just for a moment, but she steeled herself—smoothed her features, straightened her shoulders, refolded her hands on her lap. Why was he still on the floor?

“A few weeks,” she answered quietly. “Maybe longer.”

Disbelief rolled against Jack's spine, hard and fast and damaging. “Take a guess,” he darted back, and the edge of it sounded sharper than he'd meant it to. Elsa’s mouth tightened, wordlessly, and Jack’s stomach actually rolled a bit, slamming a bit of nausea into his awareness. He was still far too lightheaded.

“It got worse the morning I found my mother tailoring Anna's final measurements for her dress for the ball,” Elsa dropped, almost casually—a strange mix of facetious and forceful, splitting Jack's skull right open. “And the evening I saw my father drinking in the library.”

Jack stared at her, mouth hanging open. Too many beats of silence, then Jack slowly pulled his mouth shut. His teeth ached.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked, too quiet, working his jaw.

“You thawed the ice,” she noted to the hearth instead; a hint of wonder, an avalanche of open accusation. Elsa's expression was shuttered, but her eyes gleamed in the firelight. “You never taught me that.”

Without meaning to, Jack bristled on the floor. “That's not fair,” he snapped, defenses immediately spiked—high and sharp. “This was the only time I've ever done something like that!” he explained rapidly, then faltered at his own realization. It thrilled him as much as it terrified him, as much as it settled wrongly in the cracks in his soul. As much as it added to the exhaustion ever-creeping its way further in. “I don't even know if I could do it again if I tried,” he added, reworking the stiffness at his face, in his teeth. “My magic doesn't work like that. It's supposed to be a one-way street—Jack Frost, Winter Sprite. I make it come, and then I go. The snow stays. I'm not—I'm not _supposed_ to get rid of it.”

“But you were able to,” Elsa insisted, still not looking at him. “When you needed to, you could do it.”

“I—” Jack didn't know what to say. That it was just a fluke, and he was still just as incapable as ever? That maybe, _one day_ , he could know the trick well enough to teach her? ( _That next time, when the moment comes—_

— _you'll find a way to do it, too?_ )

“I didn't even thaw it, really,” Jack countered, but his argument felt weak. “Most of it, I just... lost. And the rest of it, I like— _absorbed._ ” Jack frowned. “It didn't feel great, either.”

Elsa said nothing, but he could see the effects of his words on her tear-streaked, red-stained face. He longed to reach out, to touch her, but Jack's arms stayed despairingly heavy around nobody but himself, and Jack desperately wondered why.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he repeated, because it still stung. Did she not think he'd find out? That he wouldn't understand— _wouldn't know what to do?_ That she could handle it all on her own— _or that she'd be better off without him?_ It hurt more that she'd wanted to try.

It hurt worse, when Elsa began to cry.

“You've been so happy,” she trailed off into a whisper, gaze falling to the floor, and it wasn't the first time Jack's happiness had felt like a crime, but it was certainly the worst.

His throat welled so quickly that he was nearly choking. “Elsa, I _am_ happy,” he answered brokenly, shifting towards her, and now—now there were tears in his eyes, too. “I'm happier than I've been in years." In _centuries_ , but it didn't feel right to say aloud. "But that's not all I am. I feel the bad, too. If you're hurting, then I hurt—whether I know why, or not."

Elsa wiped away a stream of tears with the back of her hand, and Jack watched helplessly as new ones continued to fall, continued to replace the old ones that were swept away. His exhaustion weighed him to the floor, and his stubbornness made him give into it.

“I'd get it if you thought I couldn't help with your magic,” Jack admitted, as evenly as he could. “If you thought that I might not be able to teach you out of it, or teach you how to control it better, because I haven't been able to do that in years. And I get that you care about seeming strong, and in-control, and capable of being Queen, and you _are_ , but I—” Jack cut off, fumbled with his thoughts, tripped over the magnitude of just how fucked up their lives really were— “I always thought the reason I was invisible to everybody else was so that you wouldn't have to hide yourself from me.”

This couldn't be what a Guardian was supposed to do: let the two of them sit a mile apart, each crying, each choking down their shared and lonely pain. Not once had either of them reached out since coming to sit by the fire.

( _Guardians weren't supposed to kiss their Assignments either_ , whispered a tiny voice,

but how many times had he even done _that_ since breaking down her door?)

“You don't have to tell me,” Jack blurted suddenly, and somehow this felt more right than trying to kiss her, no matter how much he wanted to. “It'd help,” he added, because he had to, “But I get it, if you have your reasons.”

Elsa laughed, sharp like crystal, just as Jack congratulated himself because _it was about time he put her needs before his_. “Oh, Jack,” she whispered, sad and tired, fond but furious, “I could fill forever with my reasons.”

Jack straightened his jaw. “Oh,” he said, clenched. “All right, then.”

“Stop it,” Elsa snapped, turning sharply, and for the first time since he'd brought her into this room, she lay her searing gaze on his. “You'd know them yourself if you merely took a moment to think of them.” Jack's eyes widened, but as he opened his mouth, she brushed right over him— “Has it occurred to you that I've been reticent because I fear that I am so completely _obvious_?”

He thought of her masks, of her perfect calm and her careful smiles, and trying to know which moments were which. “Elsa, I'm not a mind-reader—”

“Anna is growing up,” she retorted, clipped and formal. “She'll be leaving soon, in only a few short years, as someone is sure to fall in love with her and Anna will only be all too ready to give her love to someone willing and able to receive it. My failed marital arrangement has put the kingdom into a state of distress, or at least a state of uncertainty, which is another reason why so much rests with the success of Anna's introductory ball. My parents have grown accustomed to having me be nothing more than an occasional mark in their schedules, full of regret and guilt and painful feelings, and when at last either of them feel brave enough to make amends, if never any concessions, then it is already too late. People are progressing all around me. Even you,” Elsa reminded him, soft with truth, but didn't leave him any time to pick up the shards of his guilt off the floor. “And here I am, practicing the same old tricks and falling prey to new failures, while the rest of the world carries on. I'm growing more dependent on you. And not just because you're my Guardian, or in _spite_ of your role as my Guardian, because you have an entire world without me—multiple worlds, as you've said. You've had entire lives before me, and you have a different life without me even now, but you and my magic and my hope for the future are all I have, Jack, and as my magic grows stronger and my hope grows weaker, you grow closer to being the only thing I have.”

Jack stared. Elsa was no longer crying.

“My world is narrowing,” she whispered. “To these four walls, and these empty rooms, in a way that I've never felt before. My insecurities are overwhelming, and I burden you enough as it is. You once called me your anchor,” Elsa remembered softly, firelight glinting in her hair. “Because you said I ground you. But the truth is that I also hold you back.” Elsa stared at him, and on her lips formed a tiny smile, pure but small and full of bitter irony; the drying trails over her cheeks cut deeply into his chest, but the bitterness in her eyes ripped fiercely at the wounds. “I've never been one to fly.” 

His speechlessness resurfaced a sharp, unhappy memory, of anger and frustration and an acrid taste in his mouth, and the words, _you should have asked me when I was too young to know any better._

“I'm sorry. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to ruin your happiness,” Elsa whispered into the silence. “But also because, just a bit, I... may have resented your happiness, too.”

Jack Frost sat in silence, arms hooked around his knees. He didn't know quite what to do with that.

“We'll figure it out,” he said finally, voice like gravel, throat feeling ripped up by worse. _We'll figure it out_ , he said, because they would, but something had shifted.

Jack could tell.  

. * * * . 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. * * * . 

(Because when  
Elsa was hurting,  
Jack hurt too.

Even if he didn't  
always know  
all of the reasons  
why.) 

. * * * .


	186. - weakening, then -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _7/25/15_. So even though I said I was feeling much better about what happened, I think the last month of no-updates probably show just how not-okay with it I really was. :/ It's gonna take me some time to get back into the swing of things, so if the next few chapters aren’t up to the usual standards while I try to catch myself back up to speed: I apologize, and thank you for your patience.
> 
> Not beta-ing these for the time being. Just gonna whip them out and get some momentum going. I'll post them as they come and hope for the best!

 

. * * * .

_\- weakening, then -_

. * * * .

If Elsa’s control was weakening, then so were her defenses.

His fingers slipped through her hair, where it spilled--long and unbraided and unbound--over this thighs and onto the quilt beneath them. Elsa’s eyes had been long-since closed, even when she’d been startlingly awake. Her head rested in his lap, her fingers curled gently at her heart, her chest falling and rising, falling and rising, in and out, until she eventually slipped into sleep.

Jack Frost, sprawled against the headboard, skull arched back against the wood, lost in soul-crushing thought.

( _If Elsa’s control was weakening,_  
 _then so were her defenses._ )

(A Nightmarling on a darkened street. Broken baby teeth caught in a blackened dreamcatcher. Memories Lost, time lost and still losing, _a failed attempt by a young man to take his own life, a message, a warning_ , a sign.)

He stared into the shadows, eyes glazed and unfocused, finally seeing the truth as it was.

“You know,” he whispered, his voice almost soft in its harshness. “Don’t you?”

In the darkness, Jack could almost hear him laughing.

. * * * .

 

 


	187. - truly when -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _7/25/15_.

 

. * * * .

_\- truly when -_

. * * * .

Elsa woke with the dawn, with a frightened and breathless gasp that pierced his heart; and it might have done more, had he not been what he was.

The ice and vapor that spilled from her breath and into his chest was nothing dangerous, he reassured her—that her ice had no effect on him, that she couldn’t hurt him—but her heaving lungs and tightly-shut eyes and wrenching sobs made it difficult to hear, made the whispered mantras of _I’m okay_ and _you’re okay_ a little less believable with every crack in his voice. She was drained, and terrified, and cold. He was losing it.

Elsa missed her breakfast, and quite possibly her first lesson of the day. Olga soon arrived, hastily checking her for a fever, but found nothing but an exhausted, unconscious, terribly cold Princess. She piled blanket after warm blanket atop her form and called for hot soup, urging that the news be brought to the King—until a gently-roused Elsa hushed the old woman’s fears with a few quiet words, a few careful excuses, and a soft-spoken, cleverly-made promise to never leave the window open at night so early into the springtime again.   
  
He wondered when she was going to tell Olga that she requested to see her parents because, at this point, to Jack, it was clearly an inevitability. She needed help, and _Jack_ —

Jack wasn’t going to be able to give her the help she needed. Support yes, but proper help, _no—_ not yet, at least. He didn’t know if the King or Queen would be much better, honestly, but they _loved_ her; they should be made aware of her _distress_ , if not the implications attached to her powers. Even if he doubted that they could make things better, he also genuinely doubted that they could make things any worse. At least she wouldn’t be alone.

Elsa’s careful avoidance of his eyes spoke volumes.

He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t understand her reasoning, but he also couldn’t pretend to like it.

So Jack sat beside the rest of Olga’s fussing in quiet fury, because Elsa would never tell Olga what had actually happened, and Jack never could.

He waited until Elsa was well-awake enough to let her know that he was meeting with the Guardians, and then he was gone.

. * * * .

And that.

That is truly when everything began to fall apart.

. * * * .


	188. - eternal power -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/2/15_. Thank you so much for your patience, guys! This story arc has been a long time coming. :)
> 
> (Also! I moved my WIP [Jelsa Mermaid AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4477088/chapters/10176644) fic from tumblr to AO3. Feel free to check it out, as well as [this awesome edit](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/125616149417/sirchaneys-jelsa-au-mermanjackmermaids) that **LIZZIE** made for it! It's 5/8 chapters in so far and I am having waaaaaayy too much fun with it. Weekly updates, usually on Saturdays!)
> 
> These next two chapters were **BETA'D** by **ALISON**.

 

. * * * .

_\- eternal power -_

. * * * .  
  


North was still the one to create the official Summons, calling the others to join them. (Even though they’d only just left, it seemed. Even though North had only barely heard anything past " _Pitch is planning a strike against Arendelle and_ —") North was still the one to stride towards the Moonstone, and reach out with his magic and eternal power and wisdom, while Jack hung back in his usual space.

But instead of letting his wandering eyes trail over the rest of the workshop, instead of getting distracted by possible mischief as they so often did, he found himself watching North work. Jack watched the veins in North’s arms grow faintly blue with shimmering light; watched his eyes clear and flicker with focus and adrenaline; watched the world shift itself and _reach_ under his strong, capable fingertips, and Jack found himself thinking, for the first time: _You know what?_

_It doesn’t look so hard._

“Crikey,” Bunny swore, stepping up and into the freezing workshop once more. The fire had not been recently stoked, and Bunnymund noticed. “I just got _grass_ beneath my paws again. What’s the commotion?”

“Pitch,” Jack said flatly, and they waited.

“What is it?” Tooth gasped, when she burst through the balcony windows in a flutter of wings. Her small army flickered behind, impatient and anxious and furious, hinting at all of the many nuances of frustration that Toothiana did not dare reveal, herself.

“Pitch,” Bunny practically snarled, with a grimace and streaks of ruffled fur.

 _Again?_ fretted Sandy, as he dropped into view. _We’ll never be able to stay afloat if we’re always drifting down his current._

“This is important,” Jack declared, feet spread wide and arms crossed over his front. Their time was precious, he got that; if he needed to defend his case, then so be it. Nothing personal. “I felt Pitch’s presence last night in Arendelle.”

The gazes sharpened all around him; Jack tried very hard not to feel like he was surrounded by knives.

“Another Nightmarling?” Bunny remarked, brow raising high. Jack jerked his head to the side.

“The shadows,” Jack corrected gravely, clenching his jaw. North swore, something deep and volatile in Russian, or the Old Language, and Tooth’s pallor took on an even more sickly sheen. “I don’t think he was in the room,” he announced, “but he was there, in Arendelle.”

 _With_ me _._

( _And Elsa._ )

“It never ends,” Bunny grit his teeth, shaking his head as North paced along the floor. “So, now what?” he snapped, and it was then that Jack saw the soft, uneven tufts of fur that were beginning to fall, sticking to his coat in little fluffs.The small, almost imperceptible patches of stress and exhaustion. Jack’s stomach wrenched sideways, suddenly.

Bunnymund didn’t notice. He was raging, “We can’t bloody look for his lair _and_ protect the Memories _and_ search for the Lost _and_ keep a bloody look-out for sand-demons! Not in more than one world, no-bloody-less!”

“We must focus on Jamie’s army,” North announced from the far side of the room, voice trailing over and around the walls of ice with each long, powerful stride of his pacing. There was a sense of finality, of _beginning,_ of action and catalysts and dear god, they had a plan.

"What about the others?" asked Bunny. "What about the Groundhog?"

“Alert the others, the Old Ones—tell them to raise their guard still higher, _yes._ But from this moment forth,” and he looked to Tooth, with a thousand unspoken messages, “now, we work _first_ to trigger the Memories.”

The precise moment of the shift was too quick to pinpoint, but Jack felt it all the same. Tooth stared back, millennia of teamwork and trust and, “The _Belief_ ,” she nodded, firm and quick and solid and, suddenly—the room burst into action.

North was shouting commands to elves left and right, with a renewed sort of vigor that left Jack wide-eyed and staggered.

“BUNNY,” North boomed from across the shop, in between breaths of commands to yetis in a language Jack didn’t recognize. “COMPLICATIONS REPORT.”

“They’re gonna push back,” Bunny warned over the commotion, with a level sort of gravity that sounded awfully cynical for the Master of Hope, though his eyes held a special gleam. Bunny was almost grinning, caught from the lure of a challenge, as he raised his voice and hollered after North—who was marching toward a very large scroll that a family of elves were bringing out from the back. “They’ve been out of the loop for too long, had too many people tell them not to trust their instincts!”

“HOGWASH!!” North called, delightedly, as he spread the scroll over a desk in one strong swoop of his hands.

“They’ll need proof,” Tooth added fiercely, and the next thing Jack knew, she was at the controls of the North Pole’s massive globe, silently commanding her fairies left and right. ( _“More snow!”_ boomed North, pointing a large finger at the markings on the scroll. _“Brighter colors—more light! MORE!”_ ) Tooth turned then to a stunned Jack, almost slyly, and intoned, “ _Big_ proof.”

 _Reminders_ , Sandy considered, tapping his chin in concentration. Jack hadn’t even seen him approach. _They’ll need to relearn their intuition, all over again. Maybe even backwards. Not to mention break down the walls to get to it in the first place_.

“Easter,” Bunny gritted out in answer, then barked a loud, disbelieving laugh a beat later. “Well, would ya look at that?” Bunny smirked, snapping his fingers, and a few of the existing white lights on the globe flickered and brightened. “Funny how history repeats itself.”

“Yes,” North smirked back, still somehow faintly smug in the wake of so much disaster. “Just imagine how much sweeter—and more _effective_ —this project would be during _December_.”

“Give it a rest, boys, and give me a hand,” Tooth called, busily dictating notes to a few fairies and elves working with a miniature scroll of parchment. “I’ve got records showing that Pippa once wished for an old vintage typewriter in teal, and a current-day Jamie who has no idea what to get her for her birthday.”

North was pointing frantically, with _purpose_ , before Tooth had even finished her sentence. “Deliver it to thrift shop!!” he was calling fiercely, as yetis began grunting and marching all over the main floor. “Place the enchanted gift tag!” he called, as blue-tinged images of various locales and individuals and magical formulae appeared on ice walls and over wooden desks, as yetis began typing frantic notes and making precise calculations with all sorts of instruments Jack had never seen. “It must _call_ to him! Compose secret, perfectly-timed message!! Bunny—PLANT THE SEED!”

 _A bit of magic to negate the first strings of Disbelief_ , nodded Sandy, who had poured himself a cup of sand-tea. His pinky was in the air as he delicately sipped from his cup. _First Wonder, then—_

“We bring them together,” Bunny mused aloud, tapping his foot on the hardwood. It had all the surge of _epiphany_ that Jack had hoped to hear all morning. All month. (All _decade_?) “But not for Monty’s crisis…”

“To simply be _together_ again,” Tooth gasped a sigh of relief, briefly turning to Bunny and Jack and North before flitting off to another desk, effectively scaring two yetis clear out of the way, their hands thrown up in dismay and stools turned upside down and everything. “To celebrate their growth, and to recapture the bond—”

“The nostalgia will activate some of the Memories, and will strengthen their receptiveness—”

 _The heightened level of connectedness may be enough to give us a starting point_ , commented Sandy, who had conjured a monstrous wall of sand. When Jack glided over to investigate, all he saw was an intricate series of indecipherable runes and symbols, but Sandy was contemplating them intently. _Easter won’t give us enough time to summon the truest Memories—_

“ _What!_ ”

_But it could be the starting point! And with the help of a Dream or two, maybe, to help the retrieval process… By Summer Solstice, we could have made enough of an impact to leave an impression, perhaps even make an appearance—_

“Summer?” Jack whispered, hollow, his breath caught in his dry throat.

“ _Oh!_ ” gasped Tooth. “Jack, look—Jamie shows an increased neural sensitivity to bunny rabbits, especially white ones, and frost!” Her eyes blazed, far brighter than Jack had seen in months. It was—overwhelming. “You should act on that. Another frost bunny, at _least_ , though probably not until after we’ve planted Pippa’s typewriter and the wild horse stampede for Cupcake, and _only_ just enough so that he starts doubting his Disbelief, and it regresses back into Doubt. At first. Maybe in May?”

“ _May—?_ ”

“Jamie will be able to neutralize the black sand,” Bunny was muttering and—now he was pacing, too. Jack stepped back, quick and stumbling, as a team of yetis came barreling through with a cart stacked with reams of old, ancient paper. He looked in astonishment to where the elves were testing out simple spells from a very old-looking book, next to a station in which yetis were now going over every which kind of typewriter design dating as far back as the nineteen-twenties. “—and the actual Memories, we’ll have to move them to the higher-end Vault, immediately—”

“On it,” Tooth snapped, more businesslike than brusque, and swiped a long, loud scratch over something on her parchment. “They’ll be ready for transfer by Burgess sunrise.”

_Tooth, where are the basic recalls? Those are safe enough to be out in the open. I should have a spare set to let slip into their Dream pools, at least, even if I won’t tamper with anything more of the subconscious—_

“ _Basic_ , got it,” Tooth flitted, and the fairies followed, chirping and squeaking. Tooth crossed out something on the design of a nearby yeti, who yelped, and announced, “Filing now.”

“But as far as the _Memories_ of the Lost... Maybe Jamie will think of something?” Bunny scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“He _did_ find the cure for the black sand instinctively last time… but this is a more advanced situation, with much greater consequences, don’t you think?”

Bunny smiled wryly, as the heavy, uncertain pit in Jack’s stomach hardened and sank. “I’d like to think that wee Jamie’s a little more advanced these days, himself,” Bunny quipped lightly, with well-hidden heart. Jack opened his mouth, and found that his words had caught behind his teeth.

“MORE SNOW!”

“I suppose you’re right. His time without Belief must will have to count for something, I’m sure. What if—”

“ _MORE_ SNOW!”

“ _North_ , you blowhard, you’re going to actually _suffocate_ them if you don’t stop trying to fill them with so much bloody wonder!”

“HA, HA! Not _enchanted_ snow, you amateur! How often does one float suspended in swirling, beautiful, soft storm of snowflakes that softly _sing_ the languages of the Old? Never! NEVER—”

“What about Elsa?”

Jack looked around at their busy frames, their focused gazes, at their multiple tasks. Tooth was still firing off rapid-fire commands to her fairies, and North had started heavy-lifting some of the monstrously-high stacks of parchment.

He felt strangely displaced.

“She is still writing in journal, no?” North called distractedly from behind a stack that was at least twice his height. “Good girl. Tell her to keep it, keep writing—every day!”

“The journal isn’t the only priority anymore,” Jack spoke up, floating closer to North’s side, following when North eased the stacks of papers down for a station of tinkering yetis. “She records her Memories, but the journal isn’t giving her perspective.” _She’s losing it_ , he thinks, wildly, _instead_. A beat of his own astonishment, and then, “She needs more than just a bunch of empty pages.”

“So give her some stuff to fill it with,” Bunny called out, both snippy and painfully bright all in the same breath. Jack couldn't tell if he was more shocked by the genuine flash of optimism in Bunny’s voice, or the perceived, ridiculous, panic-inducing innuendo that was about to break his brain in half.

“She’s _got_ plenty to fill it with,” Jack bit back, staring to grow well and truly frustrated. “She’s got loads. Accidentally freezing door handles and tea pots and being stuck in her room all day—” _Losing a marriage suitor and watching her little sister grow up without her and watching her parents drift farther and farther away,_ and he _knew_ she wanted them closer, he could tell, _if only she would just stop being so damn stubborn—_

“Jack, Elsa already has protective systems in place,” Tooth replied reasonably, making notes in the margins of something rather large and important-looking. A yeti began to weep. It was as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder—the yeti’s, not _his_ —that she looked impatiently to Jack and said, “Elsa is _strong_ , Jack. She’s experiencing a really difficult time in her life, but that _is_ life. You are there to support her, and be there for her, and that’s what she really needs.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. He _heard_ what she was saying, and it all sounded mostly right. “But—”

“She hasn’t reached her Turning Point,” Tooth pointed out, as if this was supposed to be reassuring, and not the cold-swept dismissal that Jack actually felt reaching down to his bare toes. “She is still _learning_ , Jack, and this is how the lessons happen. Through struggle, and change, and growth. She’s growing older, and she—”

“It’s not that,” Jack interrupted, trying his best not to ground his teeth. “It’s more than that. This isn’t a typical kind of—”

“Elsa already Believes, kid,” Bunny reminded him pointedly, effectively slicing through his argument. “She _still_ Believes.” A flash of annoyance tugged at something sharp in Jack’s chest, something strange and foreign and unusual. Just because she _Believed,_ that she had _Light_ —it didn't mean that she was immune to darkness. “If she’s not ready for battle, then that’s okay. Jamie may not be either, but it’s a risk we have to take. As long as Elsa can protect herself—”

“But that’s what I’m _saying_!” Jack ground out, patience fraying. A few nearby yetis looked up from their work, as well as Tooth and Sandy, who stared. Jack determinedly locked his gaze onto Bunny’s. “She _can’t_ protect herself—not right now,” he rolled on, trying to make them _understand_. Jack’s brain flew ahead to their arguments, and his tongue quickly followed, rushing to catch up, to keep ahead. “I’m not saying she’s not capable, and it’s not that I’m not giving her any credit, but I’m _telling_ you, Elsa is—she’s not herself right now, and, it’s like—”

“Kid, I know you’re worried, and—trust me—this is _not_ the best learning experience to go through even in the best of circumstances, and yours certainly _aren’t_ , but this is what being a Guardian is all—”

“She’s not _well_ , Bunny,” Jack snapped, and—there it was.

The awkward swell of stunned silence in a too-crowded workshop, with too many people on too many different pages. And a speaker who didn’t really know what he’s talking about, except that he had to talk about it.

“In what way?” Tooth surged forward quietly, the first to step up in a sea full of confusion and interruption. Jack would be grateful, except that he was sure he was going to throw up.

“I can’t explain it,” though he was trying, he really was, “but it’s just too much to handle, and it’s wearing down on her. There’s something in her head that’s making it hard for her to focus, for her to handle things the way she normally does.”

“Something,” muttered Bunny darkly, “Or some _one_?”

Jack thinned his lips. “I don’t know. But he was _there_ , last night. If not physically, then at least in essence.” Jack’s jaw clenched. “I could feel him.”

Bunny’s face tightened, and North strode up beside him, tall and grave. The rest of the workshop was still at its standstill.

“Then perhaps,” mused North, “so could Elsa.”

Without his meaning to, Jack’s eyes slide over to Bunny’s, fierce and focused. In them, he read a question, a challenge from a long-ago conversation, of stories and names and power.

_You still keeping her in the dark, Frost?_

(A whisper of Memory, old and wise and stubborn,  
_He won’t be getting any more power from  
me_.)

“She could have,” Jack acknowledged, careful. He dragged his eyes away from Bunny’s, convincing himself that he hadn’t just failed some sort of test. “Even if she doesn’t know what or who he is. It was just a shadow of feeling, but it was enough.”

A beat, and then North nodded, swift with decision, and the workshop slowly trickled back into action, like someone had pressed _un-pause._

“We will consider,” North promised, and Jack allowed himself a sigh of relief.

. * * * .

Only no, not really, _no_ because—

“What are you _talking_ about?” Jack hissed, staring into the Moonstone on North’s desk in his private office. He was ready to slam the rock into a wall. “Of course Pitch was in there!” he nearly shouted. “I felt him!”

North did not shake his head, but the thinning of his lips was all Jack needed. He let out a snarl of frustration so thick, the ice behind North cracked.

“This state of being for Elsa is natural,” North went on, while Tooth tried to make soothing sounds and calming words that he really had no frame of mind to listen to. “There is no trace of Black, nothing supernatural.”

“Are you kidding me? He was _right there_ —he was practically inside her head!”

“There are many things going through Elsa’s mind,” North restated, as gently as possible. “But Pitch is not one of them. Not yet.”

His lungs heaved with disbelief, thick and useless. When Tooth reached out a careful hand to place on his shoulder, he had to strongly resist the urge to throw it off.

“So what do we do?” he bit out, ready to put this nightmare behind. No, fuck. _Fuck_ , he was already in his head, twisting his thoughts— “How do we help her?” Jack demanded, staring into North’s crystal-blue, wise eyes. He could feel himself losing it, just a bit.

The whole stunned silence thing was really growing old.

“Jack,” Tooth said gently, with such a striking note of apology that he almost didn’t recognize her. This time, he _did_ brush her off; her hand slipped away as his shoulder jerked forward, but she soldiered on, determined to impart a wisdom that apparently only came with a few millennia. “Jack,” she repeated, softly, like speaking to a wounded animal. “There comes a time for everyone when we have to learn our own strength… You’ve already taught her what you can.”

He couldn’t be hearing this.

This was so messed up. This was _so_ messed up.

“This is when Assignments take what they’ve learned, and _grow_ with it. There is nothing else—”

“Don’t say it,” he warned.

But she did.

“There is nothing else we can do,” she whispered.

And that was _it_. That was—

“Bullshit,” Jack spun on his heels, staring her straight in the eye. “What good are we if we’re only around for the easy parts? Before they really need us?”

“They need us in different ways, at different times—”

“Elsa needs us _now_ ,” Jack insisted, eyeing them with a fierce, spawning, spark of betrayal. It coiled within him, hot and rolling and twisting his insides, until he was very nearly sick from it. “Pitch isn’t playing anymore, and Elsa’s control is weakening, and we’re already stretched in too many directions—”

“Jack, there is nothing that we _can_ do!” Tooth threw back, the first real sign she’d shown of any ruffled feathers. Bunny and Sandy stood uselessly off to the side, looking stern and miserable in turn, and Tooth looked like she was just as miserable but twice as impatient. “She is struggling, yes, and she needs guidance, but she doesn’t need _us_ anymore!”

“She needs us now more than ever!” he nearly snarled. Tooth tossed her head in what could only be seen as exasperation, and Jack nearly lost his mind.

“What she needs is Hope, and Wonder, and good Dreams, but that’s not _who_ we are, that’s what we _teach_ and what we provide for those who—”

“I don’t fucking get it,” Jack’s fingers clenched tight to his staff as it waved through the air—no streaks of ice, but only just barely. Tooth didn’t move an inch, but Bunny and Sandy both moved back, alarmed. Jack stifled down the spike of satisfaction. “So Jamie hasn’t Believed a word of us, or of our stories, for over a decade—and _he’s_ the one being recruited for a mortal army?”

“Jamie had a Light that withstood even what was supposed to be the next of the Dark Ages, Jack— _you_ of all people know how unique he is! He was the _Last_ Light!”

“Yes, and then he _stopped_!” Jack snarled. “He was the only one left, and then he gave up on us!” And _fuck_ , this was not the time to be getting emotional, this was not the time to be letting down guards and letting this betrayal _in_ , not when Elsa needed him, not when— “Elsa still _Believes—_ longer than anyone! When no one else has ever been able to! If Jamie’s Light was the Last, then Elsa’s is the Longest—shouldn’t that count for something?”

“It _does_ , but it doesn’t _do_ what you think it does!”

“Then what good _does_ it do? What’s the point?” Jack’s throat was rasping, harsh and scratched and hot. “She spends more than half her life counting on you and your stories and your lessons and as soon as she finally loses that drive that’s kept her fucking on her feet all her life, even when everything else was dragging her down—that’s when you turn your backs on her?”

“It’s not that simple, mate,” Bunny interrupted, but Jack’s really had just about enough of him.

“Like hell it isn’t,” he spat, turning so fiercely into his gaze that for a second Jack could have sworn he saw him flinch. “You’re her _Guardian_ ,” Jack raged at him, pushing all of the meaning of that bond, of that _trust_ , into the very power of the word. “ _Do_ something about it!"

He expected another argument—something about how they _were_ doing something, or how the best thing sometimes was to give the Assignments the chance to fight back on their own. He’d heard them all before. He was ready to take each one down and pick it apart. He wasn’t expecting the worst.

“Was,” said Bunny, gently. Almost too gently. “ _Was_ , mate.”

Jack stared him hard in the eye, but Bunny met his gaze, hard and unyielding, soft and sad.

“I don’t understand,” Jack managed, stiff and almost, mind-numbingly certain.

He already knew what they were going to say.

“In many ways,” Tooth carefully began, soft and precarious, a tightrope she had walked many times before. “We will always be Elsa’s Guardian.”

His tongue bled between his teeth, hot and scathing and burning iron, searing down into his throat and heart and lungs. This was so messed _up_.

“But Elsa is very nearly grown up,” Tooth almost whispered, still trying to be gentle, still trying to pretend that Jack wasn’t prepared to rip apart the world to put things back together again, that his world wasn’t already ripping itself apart, all on its own. “She hasn’t… _relied_ on us for some time.” Then, with the barest trace of something nameless and a little too close to sympathy to truly hit home, “Probably longer than you think.”

“No,” Jack denied it, shaking his head, even as his eyes burned hot. “You’re always with her. _All the damn time_ —North, you gave her the journal. And Bunny, the sugar. And _Tooth_ , you gave her the dreamcatcher she still has tucked away in her bedside drawer—”

“Jack,” Tooth was pleading, and it was only then he realized that she was almost crying. “It’s been years.”

Just for a moment, he hesitated.

It was enough.

Something large and heavy pressed down onto his shoulders, crushing the subtle pull-and-push of his lungs. It could have been the world, or it could have been nothing, or it could have been the realization of everything coming together, everything he should have realized so much earlier.

“Elsa’s Memories,” Jack whispered, a ragged shell of the voice he’d used all up. His eyes flickered across the wooden grain of the desk, over blue light and trinkets, over parchment and quills and ink. He could feel Tooth’s eyes boring into him. He closed his. “You haven’t seen any new Memories from her since she lost the last of her baby teeth.”

He could feel her frowning, even with his eyes scrunched shut. It felt too hot, like fire, like ignorance and epiphany, and injustice.

“At thirteen,” Tooth added gently, to add salt to the wound. He jerked his head away with a scoff. But even that wasn’t almost anything. Not compared to—

“Sandy... hasn’t watched over her Dreams in years,” he almost laughed, voice cracking, watching as it all came together. (He’d known this. He’d _known_ this.) His eyes opened of their own accord, drawn to the ceiling and the flaws he’d find there, all of the abused ice and tiny scratches. “Even North,” Jack laughed again, sharp and shockingly bitter. He swallowed, heavy and thick. “This Christmas. You never came.”

His companions said nothing.

“Jack,” Tooth reached out, if not with her hands then certainly with her voice, with her love and patience and understanding and that was _it_ , wasn’t it? They’d all gone through this before, they thought, so of _course_ they knew what it felt like, of course they understood, but they were wrong, they were _so wrong—_

“Even you, Bunny?” Jack clenched his jaw, twisting his lips so that his grimace didn’t spill into his eyes, or release the tell-tale moisture that pooled there. _Not Bunny_ , thought Jack; not Bunny, who may have loved Elsa most dearly of all.

Jack’s eyes were angry, and he wanted to keep them that way. He’d let the hurt and betrayal pour out of them, so long as that was the _only_ thing that actually came out. He looked to Bunny, ignored the burning, fiercely, and demanded, “After all that you’ve done for her?”

At least Bunny had the decency to look him in the eye when he betrayed everything they stood for.

“I love her,” he told Jack, with glazed eyes and pain clear on his face, which of course told him everything, which of course meant _nothing_. “But we are the Guardians of _Child_ hood,” he declared, “and Elsa has not been a child for a very long—”

“So you abandon her,” Jack hissed, beside himself. (“— _but you and my magic and my hope for the future are all I have, Jack, and as my magic grows stronger and my hope grows weaker—_ ”) “Before her _Turning_ Point, even.”

“She has you,” Bunny insisted. “And _we_ are here for you, but that is the _purpose_ of the Assignments. Our resources are tight, and our time is short, and there are not enough of us to go around—”

“ _Resources?_ ” Jack nearly choked on his disbelief. “Are you— _I can't be everything she needs!_ ” Jack snarled, his chest nearly caving from the force of it. His head felt light, dizzy. “I might have hoped differently before, when I was too stupid to recognize all the ways she would need help—but I get it now! She needs _other_ resources, other people to teach her all the shit I can’t, and she won't _go_ to her parents, and you won't help her, so who the hell else does she have?”

 _No one_ , Jack thinks, and staggers from it.

“The world cannot stop for one person, Jack,” North says slowly from behind. Jack had almost forgotten that he was there. He doesn’t bother to look back, though. He can’t seem to pick his gaze up from off the ground. “Elsa is one of ours, and always will be,” he paused, and Jack _hated_ them, he hated _all_ of them, “but Elsa would not want us to squander our magic for the sake of one young girl, alone. No matter how wonderful.” Jack’s gaze stilled on the floorboards, heavy and still. North waited, but Jack said nothing.

“We do what’s best for the children of _all_ the worlds,” North intoned, in an old voice Jack could not ever remember hearing. He sounded as old as Time, and not nearly half so jolly. “ _For they are all that we have, all that we are, and all that we will ever be._ ”

Jack closed his eyes, and breathed, and remembered his Oath.

. * * * .

When he opened them,  
he turned his back,  
and left.

. * * * .

 


	189. - good enough -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/2/15_. Just in case you missed it from before: I moved my WIP [Jelsa Mermaid AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4477088/chapters/10176644) fic from tumblr to AO3. Feel free to check it out, as well as [this awesome edit](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/125616149417/sirchaneys-jelsa-au-mermanjackmermaids) that **LIZZIE** made for it! It's 5/8 chapters in so far and I am having waaaaaayy too much fun with it. Weekly updates, usually on Saturdays!
> 
> These last two chapters were **BETA'D** by **ALISON**.

 

. * * * .

_\- good enough -_

. * * * .

“Jack!” Toothiana raced after him, but he could ignore it. The arctic winds were howling in his ear. “Jack, don't _do_ this!”

He kept moving, bare feet in the snow. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't even care to fly. Jack just kept trudging through the snow drifts, feeling the wind slam his face and spike through his hair, if only to remember what everything was supposed to feel like.

He stopped eventually, but only because he could hear Toothiana's coughing behind him. ( _She's all right_ , he reminded himself, even as he turned and dashed back to the shock of teal in the bright white haze. _She's not gonna get sick. She's fine. She's a Guardian. She's—_ ) Bracing against the cold, and pleading with him.

“Jack, we're _sorry_ ,” she called, and she looked so torn that he actually believed her. “This _hurts_ us, Jack. It hurts us just as badly. Think poorly of us if you will—” she cried, and Jack stared, and waited, “But we've had centuries to learn the truth!”

( _One day,_ came the unspoken thought, whispered on the wind—  
_You will learn it, too_.)

Jack stared. He held her gaze, but he could still see the way she wrapped her arms around herself. He had the same urge he always had to put his arms around her, to shield her from the storm, but his fury was eating him alive and _you probably won't do her much good, anyway, Frost._

“Maybe,” Jack acknowledged, strong and certain. Unlike Tooth's brittle voice, the cold did nothing to damage his. “Or maybe it could be different, and we've done nothing for it.”

“We are the Guardians of _Childhood_!” Toothiana hissed, and the wind howled right along with her. The snow stung at his eyes, and numbed his lips, but Toothiana was still going, still thrashing. “This is how our magic works! We aren't strong enough to help _everyone_!”

“Well then who is responsible for the ones who grow up?” Jack demanded, fierce in the wake of his resentment, of surging in his element. The storm was invigorating. It was _wild_ and ferocious and awful, and it was growing. “For the ones who haven't got their old protectors?”

Like Elsa. Like Kristoff and maybe Anna. _Even Jamie_ , thought Jack, chest spasming, _who is still being asked to fight our battles for us. Who is still our last resort, or our secret weapon, but can't receive our help directly?_ Smokes and mirrors, enchanted gift tags, hints and clues, clever tricks, illusions, lies, secret messages, _all of it_. Maybe Jamie could face Pitch alone, even now, and come out stronger for it—without their help, with his own strength, the way the Guardians wanted to believe mortals so capable of. Maybe _Jamie_ had enough Light in him to face the Darkness of Pitch Black, without _their_ manipulations and gifts, and still leave the world a little brighter in the end.

( _Jamie is unique_.  
_Jamie was the Last._ )

But who would be there for the others when Pitch invaded their minds? Who would give them the strength and the spark of magic that could turn the tides? Who would have their backs?

( _Where were the Guardians of the Grown-Ups?  
__The still growing?_

 _Who?_ )

“We have _faith_ , Jack!” Tooth cried out into the storm. “We have taught them all that we can! We _have_ to believe that they will be able to protect themselves!”

 _Of course_ , Jack agreed, frowning. His mouth straightened, solid and grim. _Because no one else is around to do it_.

“Maybe that's not enough,” Jack called back. He could feel his face harden, as smooth and as unyielding as stone. “Maybe it should be different, and we're just not good enough to try.”

This time, when Jack turned and disappeared into the tundra, Toothiana did not follow.

. * * * .

 


	190. - almost-forgotten -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/9/15_. I'm still kicking myself over trying to start a new multi-chapter fic posting arrangement on tumblr, honestly, WHAT WAS I THINKING. What a hot mess. 
> 
> Just in case you missed it from before: I moved my WIP [Jelsa Mermaid AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4477088/chapters/10176644) fic from tumblr to AO3. Feel free to check it out, as well as [this awesome edit](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/125616149417/sirchaneys-jelsa-au-mermanjackmermaids) that **LIZZIE** made for it! It's 5/8 chapters in so far and I am having waaaaaayy too much fun with it. Weekly updates, usually on Saturdays! I'm a little late on this week, but it's mostly just because I'm adjusting to the mess of the transfer. T______T
> 
>  **BETA'D** by **ALISON** and **ABBY**. ♥

 

 

. * * * .

 _\- almost-forgotten_ -

. * * * .

And so this was the way things were to go.

Jack redoubled his efforts in both his patrol of Burgess, as well as his perimeter-keeping of the castle in Arendelle. He spread Fun along the way, every where he went, and took a strong sense of self-satisfaction in every smile, every breath of laughter, every smirk. (Pitch couldn't _have_ them.)

Elsa mentioned nothing of her growing unease to anyone. No matter how strongly he urged her differently.

And then, realizing that _butting heads_ was not the proper course, he stopped urging her altogether. 

( _He was there every morning, and every night, keeping the restlessness at bay.  
__With kisses, and cold hands, and soft words, and a fire for the dark_.)

Easter brought on a renewed sense of Hope across the lands, and the Guardians triumphed in their victory; eggs were found, Memories were forged, and bonds were strengthened. Happiness surged for those who celebrated its coming and those who did not, and the exuberance of the Belief painted itself on the Guardians' faces—in the brightness of Toothiana's feathers, in North's clear eyes, and in Bunnymund's sheen of fur. Sandy was looking especially golden these days. 

( _Visits to Arendelle felt strained and uncertain_. _He began wondering what he would find,  
__each time he reached the threshold, once he opened her window._ ) 

Jack felt the power surging in his skin, but the stream of energy felt shallow. He went along with the bout of celebration, for their sakes, because they deserved this necessary relief. The lights were especially bright on the globe at the Pole, almost shimmering in their unusual strength, and as the last stroke of midnight signaled the official passing of Easter, the Guardians allowed themselves a few rare hours of respite. He smiled and nodded as the Workshop broke into uproarious dancing, and laughed along to the Yeti's precarious steps, but he did not leave his perch of Phil's favorite work desk, nor did he relinquish his hold on his staff, even when it seemed appropriate to do so. Sandy tried to lure him out into the open with brilliant displays of golden dust, and Toothiana bade him forward with both hands clasping his, but Jack Frost was not to be moved.

He was a master of distraction and redirection, and even for such wise companions as Sandy and Toothiana, it was still relatively easy to shift their attentions elsewhere. A few mischievous snowflakes, a conspiratorial smirk, and a few spontaneously rough-housing elves were enough to convince his well-wishers that he intended to make mischief of the high-spirited evening from an optimal distance. If a snowflake or two just happened to flit over amethyst and golden eyes, then Jack was only doing his job, really.

( _Elsa enjoyed his games, but was rarely of mind for them.  
__His visits became entrenched in soft murmurs and silence,  
__in open arms and warm skin, in roving hands and tousled hair  
__and burning mouths, and a journal full of words that left Jack wondering_.)

Jack sat and watched and celebrated, and cheered and caused mischief and even laughed, and still couldn't help feeling that this renewed bout of Hope was exactly what someone had planned.

. * * * .

In Burgess, there was an old-fashioned typewriter, clean but well-used, in a marvelous shade of teal. It sat on a dusty shelf in the local thrift shop, next to a pair of innocuous vases filled with fabric-petaled flowers and a curious stack of books. If Jamie just happened to be conveniently passing by according to a strange and sudden impulse to go out for an ice cream cone; if Jack just _happened_ to be waiting atop the blue-painted mailbox, poised and patient; if Jamie just happened to be glancing toward the old antiques in the window, caught with sudden interest and faded memories; if Jamie were to suddenly be struck by a silly notion, by the funny-footed Memory of Pippa remarking occasionally over the years about how much she adored old and forgotten things and _I wonder if there might be anything inside that she'd—?_ and if he were to pause, momentarily suspended by indecision; if Jack Frost, stone-faced and steady save for a smirk of grim resignation, had just happened to let slip a particular snowflake, soft and swift and filled with Light—

It would mean that their plan against Pitch had officially been set into motion.

. * * * .

(Maybe he was foolish for hoping that there might be enough magic in the universe to go around.

Magic was precious. It was rare. Like most resources, its scarcity was one of the reasons it was so valuable in the first place. Maybe there simply _wasn't_ enough magic, and that's all there was to it, and that's all there would ever be.)

(But then Jack would wonder about a different era and a different _age_ , and he would wonder to himself at what point the Guardians decided that _his_ little sister was no longer a child, and no longer in need of their protection.

He'd never asked them for her Memories.

And even though he knew Toothiana would hand them over as soon as he asked, Jack didn't know if he could.)

(Maybe it wasn't about the magic, after all.

Maybe it'd never been.)

. * * * .

Jamie found an interesting and happy-looking typewriter in the dusty, old corner of the almost-forgotten thrift shop he used to frequent when he was a kid. (There was always a cheap pair of binoculars in there, or some old independently-published book on Bigfoot that the local library wouldn’t know anything about.) He didn't have much need for thrift store wares now that the university's funding offered a lot shinier toys with a lot more expensive gadgets, but Jamie entered the haphazard place with a sloppy half-smile and a tug of nostalgia pulling at his heart, and an unusual burst of bright optimism that spoke of simpler times.

 _Wouldn't hurt to take a look,_ Jamie had shrugged with a self-indulgent smile, pushing open the rickety door to the ring of silver bells hanging from the handle. They'd sounded suspiciously festive for an afternoon so late into spring, but Jamie supposed that being an owner of _thrift_ sort of meant that you had to work with what you got. The owner in question seemed to be hidden away in the back at the moment, but that was okay. He wouldn't bother ringing for him or her unless he actually found something.

Two steps in, and the little shop already had an old, cluttered air of familiarity to it that warmed Jamie to his toes. He vaguely wondered how many hours he must have spent running through these aisles as a kid, looking through older generations' treasure troves of junk—anything that could give him a lead into the mysteries of the Earth. The shelves of faded mythology books were still resting in the back— _right where he'd left them_ —housing row after row of obscure titles and other useless, but no-less-entertaining finds.

Just for fun, Jamie took a moment to offer the array of book bindings his perusal; with no goal in mind other than to drag his fingers along the splintered spines, Jamie smiled absently at the characters he found: The Loch Ness Monster. Cupid. Pixies and Leprechauns. Banshees and goblins, rural tales and urban myths, fairy tales and bedtime stories with a twist. There was mythology and folklore and many detailed pages of _evidence_ and purported science, and Jamie laughed, because if there was anything in his life that must have led to his becoming an anthropologist, then this cobwebbed old corner of the thrift store books section _had_ to be it. Ten, fifteen years ago, Jamie would have stayed up late into the night reading these books under the cover of blankets and the meager beam of a flashlight, long after his mother had ordered him to bed. Five years ago, Jamie would have laughed good-naturedly at the newest bright-eyed intern who no doubt would have been the one to mention it, would have smiled pleasantly and dismissively and told them that it was time to get down to work.

Jamie frowned.

A long moment passed, and then Jamie reached out a steady hand to the first book within sight—fairies, or something—and held onto it, rotating his wrist, looking at both front and back. The covers were nondescript, but Jamie didn't really care. Who knew if he was gonna end up reading the thing, anyway? _Just for old time's sake_ , or curiosity, or something. Just for fun.

God knew he could use more of that, these days.

Pushing disconcerting thoughts of Monty to the side, at least for the time being, Jamie resumed his browsing with renewed determination. He was on a mission, wasn't he? Pippa's birthday was right around the corner, and Jamie thought he might still have a few tricks up his sleeve when it came to presents in a pinch, but he really wanted to make this one a good one. They'd all been sort of sucking in the communication department over the last few years, and if there was anything he'd learned this last month or so, it was that time and distance and memory were funny things. Jamie still couldn't decide whether he felt more like an outsider or a long-lost puzzle piece as he ambled around town, and he imagined the rest felt much the same; they were all so different now, and all so _not_ , and if Jamie looked closely enough, he could still sorta see the rag-tag gang of weirdos from a decade or so ago, recklessly riding garbage can lids and makeshift sleds down too-icy side streets.

Fighting back an unbidden smile, Jamie pushed onward, briefly touching knick-knacks and poking at shiny things, and clutching his future purchase in his other hand. Some stuff made noise and music, and others sparkled, and some things stared back; Jamie turned away from an old ornate mirror hidden behind a stack of plates. He couldn't tell if this stress made him look older, or showed the world just how young he really was.

 _I wonder if...?_ There had to be something that Pippa would like in here—he was sure of it. Something funny, but practical? That pretty much summed her up. Her priorities and plans might have changed, but some things never do. (Just because they'd all sucked at long-distance friendship for almost ten years didn't mean that they couldn't take advantage of a few crappy reasons to actually reconnect; Jamie wanted to start a new precedent about showing people he still remembered them, even if he didn't really see them anymore. Maybe one day, he'd actually have what it took to keep up with it, even after the crappy reasons had gone.)

Jamie found a whole set of notebooks that weren't in half-bad shape, and stopped to consider them. They sort of looked like journals more than anything else, but they were pretty cool; simple, but authentic leather, from the smell of it. _What the hell are they doing in a thrift shop—and at this price?_ Jamie was balking at the price tag. No way he could pass up such a steal, no matter how nerdy Claude and Caleb were gonna find them. Jamie did a quick count of the set, just to see and—yep. There were actually enough for each of them. Monty could definitely use another one, and Cupcake had some seriously decent poetry once she she backed down long enough to actually let someone read it. Claude and Caleb would probably fill it with sketches and mathematical equations, respectively, instead. They'd just have to deal.

Jamie didn't know what he was gonna put in his yet. He hoped it would be more interesting than lecture notes.

 _Didn't Pippa say she wanted to get back into writing?_ Jamie reminded himself, surging forward with a bright burst of clarity. He was already tucking the small notebooks under the same arm as his other find. Jamie glanced up, searching for something else to pique his interest. _Would Pippa like some of these books too, maybe?_ It'd certainly be a blast from the past: all those nights camping out in her tree fort, drawing maps and doing _research_ , with little red pins and scratchy pen-marks. Jamie caught himself smiling as he drifted farther and farther back into the store. _Nah_ , Jamie smiled to himself, fingering the flowy fabric of some multicolored scarf. (The colors reminded him of something. He felt like he'd seen that hue of blue-green before, not quite oceanic and not quite natural. Same thing with this purple. There were only a very few rare times that he'd ever remembered seeing such an interesting shade of amethyst—) On second thought, Pippa was too busy with too much else right now. The notebook, she'd like, especially if she was getting back into writing like she'd said she was, but the books might be overkill. It might be fun to show her _his_ new purchase, just for kicks, but if the story wasn't about the Big Five, then it wasn't really worth buying into.

Jamie tripped violently over his own feet, and swore when the journals tumbled to the ground. He glanced hastily up, surreptitiously casting a glance around the empty store to make sure no one had heard, and then proceeded stack his collection of notebooks over his knee. Stupid, uneven floors. These old buildings were really dangerous, if you thought about it, and there was plenty of costly items to break. He might mention something to the owner, just in case—

A strange trickle of sound rushed past his ears. Not quite _tapping_ , not quite clicking, but a curious mix of something in-between. Rather distinctive, but— _elusive_?

Curious, and rather wishing that he'd grabbed a basket for all of the random stuff he should have known he was going to inevitably buy, Jamie frowned his way over to the very deepest part of the store, to the corner shelves where only a tiniest shred of light from an upper-window peered in. The first thing he noticed was a few vases of fake flowers, once again in that really brilliant shade of amethyst, and then he saw the modest typewriter sitting next to it, bright and subdued and perfectly Pippa.

He immediately glanced to the front of the store—he _really_ should have grabbed a basket—when that weird tip-tapping noise sprinkled once more through the air. Was that rain outside—or hail? The sunshine through the sliver of a window showed that it was obviously neither, and it was as Jamie was leaning up to get a closer look out at the sky, hands dangerously full, that he realized that the sounds were coming from the typewriter beside him.

Jamie stared incredulously at the silent, unmoving keys. There didn't _seem_ to be anything weird about them. ( _Maybe it's a prank that the owner...?_ ) Nope, yeah, those were definitely just regular old typewriter keys. White and shiny, with rounded, scalloped, worn-in places for the pads of quick-moving fingers, and a single sheet of paper suspended in its holder, probably leftover from some old sales clerk, probably all out of ink or—

And that's when he noticed that someone had written a message in clear black ink, in clean, little typescript letters, however long ago, waiting for however long it'd take someone like Jamie to find them.

 

M A N   I N   M O O N 

 

Too bad he had no idea what the hell they were talking about.

Jamie precariously shifted his stack of books into the crook of his other arm, swaying his weight to one side, and carefully lifted the typewriter off of the shelf with both hands. It was a pretty thing, not many scratches, worn but obviously _loved_ , and okay, Jamie was obviously going to buy it. It just felt right in his hands. Like he was _supposed_ to find it. Jamie smirked all the way back to the front counter, even if he felt like he two seconds away from dropping more stuff on the floor.

Pippa was gonna be _pumped_.

As he rang the bell and waited, Jamie took another moment to further inspect his prize. He was impressed by the condition it was in, as well as how easily it fell into his metaphorical lap. _What a find_. What a weird message.

Truthfully, Jamie was kind of surprised with himself. He couldn't seem to remember any really interesting myths about the face of the so-called man in the moon... which was really pretty absurd, considering he'd done a whole project during his second year of college on the different roles and cultural representations that various societies and civilizations had assigned to its mysterious face. Jamie had gotten really annoyed that his partner had kept calling the face _Manny_ for short, because the whole point of their assertion was to point out the patriarchal influences in storytelling—

A little perturbed that his ears were ringing when he was pretty sure that he _hadn't_ impatiently rung the bell, again, and then substantially _freaked out_ when he realized that the ringing sounds weren't actually so much ringing as they were _tip-tap-trickling_ on the counter space in front of him, Jamie slowly dragged his eyes down to the perfect typewriter sitting before him, and stared.

 

T O L D      Y O U

 

. * * * .

 

 


	191. - same desk -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/17/15_. I have a whole bunch of longer chapters that are mostly ready to go, but just need to be beta'd. This one was beta'd by the lovely **ABBY** , though **ALISON** will probably do some retroactive beta-ing later this week when her schedule frees up, haha.
> 
> I'm on vacation for the next week or so, so I'm hoping to get some serious writing done! :) Wish me luck!

 

. * * * .

\- _same desk_ -

. * * * .  
  


Around the second hour after the Thrift Shop Experience, Bunny arrived.

“He figure anything out yet?” he asked, hooking his boomerang into his belt and crossing his arms.

Jack paused.

There was an underlying tension in the air between them, much more subtle and uncertain than any of their usual bickering. Anger had always seemed so straightforward, but this was a bit more complicated.

Eventually Jack shook his head, slow and serious. “Not yet,” he replied, though he was pretty sure the answer was already clear enough as it was. Jamie was hunched over his work desk— _not the one on campus, but in his childhood room, too small and scratched-up and a hand-me-down from the neighbors_ —and completely surrounded by flimsy paper print-outs of way too many Wikipedia articles. And a large stack of scholarly journals too, but Jack wasn’t too interested in those sources; Jamie wasn’t gonna (re)learn the truth from scientists.

Even if Jamie considered himself one now, technically.

“He try sharing anything with Pippa yet?”

Jack glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Bunny could have figured it out for himself easily enough, so he was pretty sure this was nothing more than an excuse to strike up a conversation. _Fine, then_.

“He wants more evidence first,” Jack evenly replied, choosing to keep his eyes on Jamie’s frantic scribbling rather than turning to Bunny. The steady flow of Memories brought on by the day’s events had been pouring into the room for hours, filling up all of the corners and spaces and then flooding outward.

( _Frost bunnies  
and _proof  
 _and the first time he ever heard  
_ _a human speak his (new) name—  
_ _—and what he’d had to do to earn it._ )

Jack Frost watched Jamie dig and search endlessly through the many accounts— _fateful encounters and timeless fairy tales—_ in an effort to find more knowledge about what was quite literally sitting right behind him. _Evidence_ , Jack thought once more, and muttered, “Surprise, surprise.”

“Did North do the light show yet?”

“No,” Jack answered, watching as Jamie viciously crossed out the most recent line in his new notebook. Or his journal, rather. _Damn you, North_ , Jack thought, staring at the deeply blue cover with a wayward pang of piercing familiarity; even when he was well-and-truly disappointed in the man, Jack couldn’t completely deny his cunning.

Jack swallowed and added, “Jamie wouldn’t be in a state to appreciate it. He’s been attacking his journal with theories and hypothe-what’s-its ever since he got home. Has barely looked up once or twice.”

 _Or behind him_ , Jack thought, but didn’t say.

“Did the kid freak out? I told North it was a right stupid idea to go with the enchanted typewriter _first_. Too much magic, too soon.”

“He’s not a kid,” Jack answered, with level determination. “And no,” he answered readily, long before Bunny had any chance of rebuttal; he curled a slow, sweeping twist of his fingers through the air, and then the two of them watched as mischievous snowflakes danced unnoticed behind Jamie’s back. With that same gripping resignation that he felt two hours before, Jack dryly noted, “Seems like my major contribution to this whole charade is to make sure nobody loses their mind.”

“You’re doing a hell of a lot more than what you’re cracking it up to be,” Bunny argued, more than faintly annoyed. “You know what this is for, Frost. You’re fighting off Fear.”

“No need for a pep talk, _mate_. I know what my center is,” Jack snapped, leveling him with some serious annoyance of his own. “I’m re-focusing him with Fun. Jamie loves games, and a good mystery, and he can’t find the _Fun_ in the mystery of a supernaturally-magical typewriter if he’s freaked the fuck out of his mind.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem. I’ve got about twelve _thousand_ problems, but that’s not what you’re angling for. My point is that you can save the save-the-day spiel for somebody else, because I don’t need it. I’m giving Jamie an extra dose of Fun so he doesn’t flip his lid and think about how scary this shit really is. It’s what I do.” ( _It’s what I’ve done before._ ) “Jamie _likes_ Fun and games and challenges, and he hasn’t actually allowed himself to really enjoy his work in years because apparently he’s forgotten who he used to be just as much as he’s forgotten _me_ , so this is just the spark he needs to finally start remembering himself. I wave a few snowflakes and—” Shit. He’d been talking for a long time. Jack forced a shrug, jerky and harsh, if only to hide his sigh. “And _voila_. This whole search he’s doing is just another game to him.”

 _And there it is,_ thought Jack, as the knife cut just a tiny bit deeper.

Jamie’s bed was not nearly as comfortable as Jack (thought) he remembered, but apparently a decade can do that kind of wear-and-tear on a mattress. Most of Jamie’s stuff had been long-since removed from this room, but a few choice posters and knick-knacks still remained. And his books, of course. Different sheets, same desk, same walls, different man, same boy.

( _Same Guardian?_ )

“Thought this meant something to you,” Bunny noted quietly. “That he might come back to you.”

Jack clenched his jaw. “It does mean something,” he said tightly. “And of course I want him back. But maybe all of this is making me realize just how bitter I still am that he gave up on me at all.”

On _us_ , he’d meant to say.

There was reproach in Bunny’s gaze, but probably a little guilt, too. “Not everybody is like Elsa, mate.”

Jack’s scowl deepened. He looked at the enchanted typewriter, and the many purposeful journals cluttering Jamie’s desk, and the general buzz of _what if?_ that was permeating his tiny childhood room, full of Memories and possibilities and Wonder. And two Guardians.

Looked to Bunny, standing beside him in Jamie’s room, watching patiently over Jamie’s preoccupied hunch, waiting for the Belief to strike its match.

“Not everyone is as lucky as Jamie,” he answered, and fell silent.

. * * * .

And just like that, April was over.

. * * * .

May was going to be a busy month. It meant good things for Anna, whose cabin-castle-fever was reaching dangerous levels of intensity. The only real consolation she had as her parents continued to place the finishing touches on their travel arrangements for the end of June and on her upcoming introduction for the middle of July was the reassurance that they would bring back plenty of stories.

That, and the hanging promise of _something_ beyond the end of spring— _the certainty of summer and life and a new way of living and, maybe, maybe even love_ — _?_

Well, with things like that to look forward to,Anna didn't find the castle so much a cage.

Jack watched as she ran and danced through the halls with renewed vigor and cheered and laughed with the staff all day long. Her dancing was _delightful_ , said the others; still without proper technique, mostly, but genuine in its exuberance and happy grace. Her dress was going to be beautiful, and so was she, and she showed the finished design to anyone willing to look. ( _“I don't care if it's a surprise, Mama—nobody else outside of the castle has seen it, at least! At this rate, everyone inside the castle will have had—oh. Well, I mean..._

“ _Mostly everyone.”_ )

. * * * .

Kristoff heard rumors from the merchant out-of-towners that there was gonna be a party at the castle.

( _“It's not any of my business,_ ” he told the Trolls, when they eagerly asked him if it was true. _“It's not like I'm going.”_ ) The Trolls seemed convinced that he'd be invited if only he actually _talked_ to someone in town, rather than just scowling at them, and Jack couldn't help but smirk and agree.

( _“What do I care about a Princess finally getting to wear some dancing shoes? I got more important things to worry about.”_ )

It was no secret that Kristoff had never really understood the Trolls' reverence for the King, and it was no secret that Jack shared his doubt; nevertheless, it was still strangely cutting to hear one of his older charges dismiss another of his most in need. Kristoff's snide remarksof the royal family's celebration—however steeped in envy and decades of mechanisms for self-defense—sat wrongly in Jack's gut for the rest of the week.

“You don't know her,” Jack would whisper, watching as Kristoff silently hacked away at blocks of ice with expert care, cold and certain and precise. (Kristoff always knew what to do with ice—even if _only_ ice—and for so many years, Jack had been able to relate.) The sun would set over the mountains and Kristoff's breath would linger in the air, and the only sounds would be Kristoff's steady, labored breathing, until Jack's soft admission, “This is so much more important than you realize.”

Jack never observed the Troll Garden without his shield of invisibility, because who _knew_ what kind of consequences that would provoke, but sometimes Jack found himself wishing he could just do away with it all, fly right into the open amphitheater of rocks and moss and shout, _“Do you know who I am? Do you realize what you've done?”_

( _“Do you know what's been stolen from you?”_ )

But instead, Jack held himself at bay by watching Kristoff polish his brand new sleigh with tender pride, and sending devious winks towards an utterly confused Sven, and imagining what it might be like if Kristoff accidentally stumbled into a very particular ballroom on a very particular evening and just so happened to meet a very particular Princess with a brand new pair of dancing shoes.

. * * * .

On top of everything else, Jack was actually forced to take _notes_ on the deal with the Hamada brothers. Jack had come into Elsa's Assignment when she was pretty much on the brink of her real challenges, but his start-up with Hiro seemed to be taking _forever_.

“You are sure taking your _sweet_ time,” Jack would mutter, as he watched Hiro determinedly screw yet another bolt into the latest model of fighter-robots, or whatever he called them, and whenever Hiro reached for _another_ screwdriver or gadget or what's-it, Jack would promptly collapse back onto Hiro's bed in sheer and utter boredom, and groan.

. * * * .

“You're still angry with us,” announced Tooth, one day, as he was helping her load another round of the Protected Memories into the new holding cells. Jack glanced up briefly, if only out of courtesy.

“You know it's more complicated than that,” he acknowledged, refusing to break his stride. There were plenty of Boxes to transfer, and the fairies were already overburdened as it was. If he was here, he was gonna be useful.

Toothiana paused, pulling together her thoughts, and Jack waited as patiently as he could while he ticked off names on a sheet. The golden glow of so many Memory Boxes in one place was starting to hurt his eyes, and the feathers of the little fairies practically sparkled in the light. He smiled instinctively, and chuckled as they swooned onto the stacks. _Maybe not so useful, after all_.

“Bunny's worried that you feel the most anger towards him,” Toothiana revealed, which actually made Jack falter. He could distantly hear the fairies pulling themselves back up, and tried to flatten his expression. “You know how he is. He’s an _up-and-at-’em_ kind of creature, so he’s not used to all of this silent tension.” She looked him very clearly in the eye, and Jack was rather surprised that he was actually still looking at her. “And you know he wouldn't want me to tell you this, so please don't share that I have.”

Jack glanced down at the remaining stacks of Memories. They should really be getting a move-on. “He tell you all that?” he muttered, in spite of himself.

“No,” Toothiana said quietly. “But he doesn't need to.”

Jack wordlessly resumed his work, tallying off the names and numbers with much slower focus. Eventually, not looking, he aimed his voice up towards Toothiana, who was still merely waiting and not doing much of any counting or tallying at all, and he said, “So he thinks I’m more angry with him because of his closeness to Elsa, compared to the rest of you?” Jack didn't bother sugar-coating it. He clenched his jaw, instead. “Because he knows how much he meant to her?”

Toothiana hesitated, mulling it over, but Jack didn't feel very guilty; it was the truth, and Jack was really getting pretty damn tired of always rationalizing shit and apologizing for what was real.

“That's part of it,” she acknowledged. “Perhaps most of it... but he also fears you think him a hypocrite.”

“We all are.”

“ _Not_ like that,” Toothiana argued, albeit gently. “He thinks some of your anger also stems from your firsthand experience with Rapunzel's Turning Point. Like Elsa, she too began fading out of our direct Guardianship when she was eighteen.”

Jack bristled. “It'd crossed my mind,” he bit his cheek.

“He thinks—he worries that it might have given you the wrong impression about what that transition might be like. He feels guilty that he—that he led you to false assumptions about this process. The truth is that Rapunzel and Elsa's experiences—although they have a few certain parallels—they're very different from one another. At the time of Rapunzel's Turning Point, she was still very much a child. Her loss of innocence was drastic—death, betrayal, loss—but it was swift and sudden. Elsa—”

“Look,” Jack interrupted. He was stiff, but mostly tired. “I get why you're telling me this, and I'd like to tell you something that will help you give Bunny some reassurance or whatever, but the truth is that you already know what I'm feeling, so you already know that this whole broken record thing isn't doing anything to make it any easier.”

Toothiana considered this, and Jack finally gave up on his tallies. He glanced up at her expectantly, as patiently as he could, and was suddenly struck with a fierce feeling of role-reversal, and the notion of _when exactly did the tables turn?_

“What do you suggest I tell him?” Toothiana asked. It was an interesting question, especially since Jack knew that she didn't really need his answer.

Jack shrugged. “Well. Since he hasn't actually told you any of this, there's only one thing to really tell him, which is fine, because that's what you're planning to tell him anyway.”

“Which is what?”

“I'll get over it eventually,” Jack stated, flat and dry and reeking of immortality. “Maybe not one day soon, but. Whatever. I've got time.”

. * * * .

One lazy afternoon: only two cracked tea cups, one frozen windowsill, which meant that it was more than enough for Jack to call it a success.

Elsa did not agree, but Jack was well-positioned to make her forget about it.

As his fingers danced along her shoulder— _beneath_ the jacket, which she had taken to wearing every single day—Jack whispered kisses into her neck, along her jaw, behind her ear. _This is one of my favorite Memories_ , he thought, for the thousandth time that evening, and as he considered what would _truly_ be considered his most favored of moments, he took a moment to ponder what Elsa would keep inside her most treasured compartment—whether it was in her journal, or not—and what it might be like to see such Memories firsthand, through her eyes.

They were at the window, and it was springtime twilight, and again it struck him how lucky he was, how beautiful she'd become and how much more beautiful she'd grow to be, and how he would do anything to help her.

“Sometimes I wonder where that little girl has gone,” Elsa whispered as the lay beside one another, limbs tangled and breaths mingling, turning over his fingers in her hands.

“Who?” Jack whispered, drawing infinite patterns on her palm. He liked the lines on her hands, smooth and soft and intricate. He liked the way they felt beneath his fingertips, against his cheek, over his chest, caressing his skin. Jack pressed them to his lips, tracing the lines with feather-light touches, cold and warm and burning all the way into his soul. “Anna?” he murmured through tiny kisses, and wondered if _peace_ was a feeling, or a Dream.

Elsa smiled softly and slipped her hand from his hold. She held it above them, high towards the ceiling, and took his hand to delicately trace his finger a over a deep, long line in her palm; in a curious instance of recollection, Jack suddenly remembered something Tooth had once told him on a gray, rainy day in the mountains—about fortunes and palmistry and _life_.

“No,” Elsa whispered, as she slowly dragged his fingertip further along the line. “Me.”

. * * * .

 


	192. - fucking who? -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/20/15_. The next batch of chapters have been beta'd! I will be posting the lot of them throughout today and tomorrow, one at a time. (It takes some time to make sure the formatting is right after the transfer from google docs to AO3!) Thank you for waiting so patiently and a HUGE thanks to all of you who have been leaving comments on AO3 and tumblr! :) :) There are definitely a few regulars whose comments I read half-a-billion times each day, haha.
> 
>  **BETA'D** by both **ALISON** and **ABBY**. Thanks, ladies!

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _fucking_ who _?_ -

. * * * .

“You called us all the way over here to talk about _Bigfoot_?”

Claude was _not_ happy, but Caleb had noticed his favorite brand of cookies conveniently sitting on the corner; some were easily bought, and _others_ —

“Some of us have actual work to do, you know.”

Not so much.

Cupcake was tapping her foot, and Pippa was looking uncertainly at the pile of books sitting on Jamie's living room coffee table, and Monty just looked very, very tired.

“Urgent friendship meeting, my ass,” Cupcake glared. “Do you have any idea what kind of phone call I just dropped to race over here? I don't care what kind of cookies your mom bought us, or how badly you want to trek down Memory Lane—I ain't about to lose half-a-billion just over some childhood reunion-bonding thing.”

Jack thought that her actions spoke differently, but alas—no one was in a position to hear his opinion.

“Yeah, man,” Claude complained. “You can't pull the childhood friendship card just for a scary movie night or reading sesh or something. I got _commissions_ to do, alright?”

Jamie was a persuasively-optimistic kind of guy, even at his most skeptical, but he was still having a pretty hard time with this crew. _They really are set in their own ways, aren't they?_ Jack would occasionally glance up the stairs, towards Jamie's old bedroom and his old work desk and the new enchanted typewriter that was still sitting atop it, the one that Jack knew Jamie had not yet shared with anybody else.

(That morning, Jamie had apparently woken to a simple smiley face written in fresh black courier ink, and Jack had promptly slapped himself in the forehead.

 _Goddammit, North_.)

Luckily, Jamie's natural charisma and his old charm were enough to get the others to lighten up a bit. The twelve-pack of beer in the fridge and the two bottles of wine probably didn't hurt, and the next thing Jack knew, they were all sitting out on Jamie's back porch and reminiscing over old adventures in the mid-May twilight. Even Monty was smiling. Jack found a familiar old notch on his still-familiar fence post, and settled in with something much deeper than nostalgia.

“Okay, okay,” Claude was laughing. “But do _you_ remember that sick sledding joy-ride you did?” He cracked up. “ _Shit_ , we were so stupid. We should have _died_ , man.”

“I think I almost did,” Jamie smiled, and the others laughed even more. Jack's stomach steadily churned.

“God, what were we thinking?” Cupcake wiped a hand over her face. She'd grown into her features, as well as into her strength, but there were still traces of the little girl she'd once been, the sweetness hidden underneath the rough. _Some_ things didn't change, but at least the sweetness was a lot closer to the surface now. Mostly. “Your tiny, pipsqueak ass was lucky you didn't lose more than a tooth.”

“Oh, damn!” Jamie half-laughed, half-choked—sudden and bright and pure with a surge of memory. His hand reached up to swipe away the sip of beer that threatened to dribble down his chin and into his lap. “I almost forgot about that! Sophie was obsessed with fairies for like, a _month_ after that. She'd ramble on and on about how she saw them everywhere.”

The others laughed, full of fondness, and Jack had to turn away.

“Well, at least it's better than Bigfoot,” Pippa chimed, sly and sweet, and took a delicate sip from her own drink. Jamie's head swiveled in her direction, quick with surprise, as the others added insult after insult to injury, steadily growing the collective pile of _yeah,_ _let's all rag on Jamie!!_

“Hey, at least there's _proof_ that Phil exists, okay?” Jamie argued, cheery and bright and Jack promptly slipped right off his perch.

“Fucking _who_?”

“Bigfoot,” Jamie sipped his drink, brows furrowed with confusion. Jack had scrambled back up the railing and was clutching the barrier tight, chest and pounding heart pressed up against the wooden panels. “It's not like I haven't mentioned him already.”

“Yeah, but—you know what? Whatever. You're so weird, man,” Claude laughed, shaking his head, but Jamie frowned. Jack watched as his brows knotted more deeply in the center of his forehead, twisting with confusion.

“But we love you, anyway,” Cupcake muttered sweetly, then proceeded to give him a rather brutal noogie, and as they all laughed themselves well into the evening, the matter was effectively dropped.

. * * * .

Elsa was wearing her jackets again, but it wasn't really that big a deal. (“ _They're just more comfortable,_ ” she told him, and he wanted so badly to believe her.) She slept every night at her window, waiting for him, and he'd carry her to the bed in his arms. She was always so cold these days, no matter how many blankets he piled over her. ( _“I mean—you always feel warm to me,”_ he reassured her, as she drifted off to sleep, and he joined her.) She didn't want to practice magic very often anymore, but that wasn't really a surprise. They'd always had to be more careful with the start of the warmer seasons, and now didn't really seem like a good time to try unleashing anything further. ( _“The control is still a valuable tool,”_ she'd argue, though Jack had stopped putting up so much of a fight. _“Really. We can resume my creative training in the autumn. Or maybe even the winter, if it's not cold enough in the fall. It'll be much easier to hide, especially since Anna will probably be traveling much more often, as will be my parents. There will hardly be anyone in the castle. It will be perfect.”_ )

Her parents would be leaving for the wedding and the Summit in only a matter of weeks, but Jack didn't feel the need to remind her.

. * * * .

 


	193. - bone-deep -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/21/15_. Still **BETA'D** by **ALISON** and **ABBY**! :) For all of you who participated in Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day today—thank you!

 

. * * * .  
  
\- _bone-deep_ -  
  
. * * * .

On one particularly warm day, Elsa received a package.

At first, Jack was at a loss: it wasn't one of Henrik's letters—which had lessened to a mere trickle of nothing more than half-hearted determination and lingering, heartfelt loyalty—and the motivation of the sender apparently wasn't of any political nature. Or, according to Elsa—perhaps it was.

“It's from your _mom_ ,” Jack argued, aghast, finally looking to the label. “Aren't you going to open it?”

Elsa purposefully did not look up from her book. “Eventually.”

She _wanted_ to. He knew she did, so why the hell was she still resisting? Was this really just a matter of pride?

Feeling especially brave, Jack questioned her on it. “It seems like a nice gesture,” he hinted. (It seemed like something _his_ mother would have done, if only she'd had the resources.) “Your mom's been in and out of town for the last few days to prepare for the trip and make some appearances, and she probably saw some stuff that made her think of you, so she was probably like, ' _oh, why don't I grab this for Elsa? She'd like this scarf, or this trinket, or something, or this piece of lemon cake_ —'”

“Gloves?”

“Why shut her out?” Jack demanded, ignoring her jab completely. (He really, truly _hoped_ there weren't any gloves inside that package. If the Queen had any remaining sense at all, she'd shred and burn every pair of gloves in the kingdom.) “She probably knows that you won't talk to her, so she tried the next best thing.”

“A decade and a half of mistrust isn't easily won over by a so-called care package. Especially if we are still technically in the same vicinity.”

“Yeah, but—” This was so _frustrating_. “What about the effort, you know? She's trying, isn't she? And she _keeps_ trying, even when you don't let her.” _She wants to see you_ , Jack thought, madly. _More than just the passing glances and hellos, and the awkward nods and small-talk at weekly dinner. Your father, too, even if he's a lot worse at holding it all in than your mother._

(An unexpected Memory:  
a stiff, awkward, impromptu meeting   
between two sad, angry sisters,  
and suddenly, darkly, dryly, Jack thought,  
_I_ _t must run in the family_.)

“Jack,” she sighed. “I hear what you're saying. But this is—I am barely keeping it together as it is. Right now, I just can't let anything else in.”

Well, the answer probably wasn't shutting your loved ones _out_ , but this was also probably an answer not meant to be said aloud tonight. ( _Then, when?_ wondered Jack. He looked at Elsa's vulnerability and exhaustion and stress and thought, _Am I really the most qualified to make those kinds of decisions?_ )

Another day, then.

. * * * .

“You know what's fucked up?”

Bunny looked to Jack, clearly surprised that he'd said anything to him at all. Jack was at the Warren because of duty, rather than by choice, and apparently Bunnymund had expected a couple of hours of staunchly professional silence.

“Aside from the obvious?” he asked, slowly sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Jack frowned, with purpose. Yeah, he was still angry with Bunny and the others, but he needed to _vent_.

(Besides. After yet another infuriating discussion with Elsa on the nature of _her_ general response to the anger and frustration and resentment she felt for her family, Jack was feeling pretty magnanimous with his attention.)

( _Family was precious. Family was still family,  
__even if they sometimes let him down._ )

“Focusing on just one detail, for the moment—let's consider the fact that these people need _proof_ in order to Believe, or even just—to start thinking about Believing, at all.”

Bunny blinked at Jack's scathing anger. It was tightly-coiled, but clearly bone-deep. “Jamie?”

“All of them,” Jack snapped. “Like—honestly, man? _Fuck_ Jamie for needing that frost bunny fifteen years ago to Believe in you. Yeah, everyone else's Lights had gone out, and he was the Last Light left, but he'd actually seen you with his own eyes the night before, and _that_ wasn't enough? And like, okay, I get that he might have thought he was dreaming when he saw you guys, or whatever, but he still needed _more_? A friggin’ _sign?_ ”

Bunny was quiet for a minute, turning Jack's anger over in his mind. “Everybody needs a little something to base their faith on,” he answered eventually.

Jack glared. “ _Evidently_ ,” he scoffed. He wasn’t done. “But you know what else? He might have a higher natural propensity for curiosity and _believing in the beyond_ sort of stuff, but I bet you the only reason he probably even had all that Light in him in the first place was because he saw all of you in the same room during the thick of it all. Around Easter, no less. He’d already _had_ his proof, and it’s just—it’s like— _now_ we're going through all this crap all over again with the typewriter and the _Fun_ and the signs of magic everywhere and the little tidbits of Memory—”

“I thought you said it was working,” Bunny interrupted. “That he'd started remembering things without realizing them.”

“It's the principle of the matter,” Jack argued. “Believing shouldn't always be about _seeing_ , you know?”

Bunny fought back a smirk; it looked way too fond, considering how mad Jack still was. “One usually goes with the other, mate.”

Jack scowled for a long minute, then smacked his hand over his eyes with a loud groan. “This fucking sucks,” he wiped his hand down, glaring hard at the rounded ceiling and walls. “I know that Believing usually leads to _seeing_ , but my point is that seeing shouldn't always be at the heart of Believing. Seeing _isn’t_ Believing--or it is, though it shouldn’t be, but— _fuck_.” Jack covered his eyes with both hands. “Why the hell is this so confusing?”

“If we knew all the answers, mate, we'd probably be out of a job.”

Jack thought that was probably the stupidest answer ever, especially coming from a Pooka, and also that even though he didn’t entirely understand what Bunny meant, he got the feeling that Bunny was probably very, very right.

. * * * .

(Jack knew Elsa was keeping secrets.)

( _He was keeping them, too._

 _Kisses of sherry wine.  
__Monsters lurking in the shadows.  
__The world, slowly dragging towards its end._ )

( _A romance that was never supposed to happen._ )

(Sometimes, Jack grew tired of all the lies and the secrets—whether he had a choice in them, or not. Funny, how sometimes he found himself thinking things like, _I never realized just how much freedom I had when I was invisible—_

And then he'd bite his cheek, and remind himself to bleed.)

. * * * .

The other Guardians briefly talked about starting up a freak snowstorm in Burgess in the middle of May, but Jack quickly shot it down. The goal was to get the Gang to _Believe_ in them again—not to hate the Weather Person. And they didn't want to piss off Mother Nature in the process, either.

That started up another boring, infuriating discussion on impact of adult Belief, too. If Pitch was attacking _adults'_ Memories, but only children were under the Guardians' protection, then that left an awful lot of gaps. But if _Jamie_ and his crew were able to Believe again—

( _“What would be the impact of an adult Believing?”_ they wondered. “ _In addition to creating another force, would this strengthen our powers? Would their Belief be any more or less pure than that of a child's? Does their lack of innocence temper the flare of Belief, or does it fortify it?”_ )

(Such bullshit.)

(“ _Jack,”_ Toothiana broke apart from the group sometime later, gently pulling Jack aside. _“We agree with you. Haven't you understood that yet? Someone_ should _be there for them... but it can't be us, Jack._

 _Let us fight for someone who might be able to,_ ” she pleaded, squeezing his arm and, finally, Jack felt his resolve begin to crumble. _“A new team. A new band of Guardians, or something like it.”_

“ _It's not good enough,”_ he decided eventually, staring down at her hand on his arm. _“But I guess it's all we've got.”_ )

. * * * .

(And late one night at the end of May,  
Jack found himself whispering in the dark,  
_“Is this what you were aiming for, Pitch?”_

He received no answer.)

. * * * .

 


	194. - the regression -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/21/15_ >. **Beta'd** by **Alison** and **Abby**. ♥
> 
>  
> 
> Please see the End Notes for **_trigger warnings_**.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Jack had been wondering for weeks now if Elsa knew  
just how much the other Guardians had all abandoned her; how she’d _outgrown_ them.

(Eventually, he realized: as usual, Elsa had probably discovered the truth  
long before he had.)

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

. * * * .

\- _the regression_ -

. * * * .

Actually allowing himself to think, even for a moment, that he had everything under control—that was his first mistake.

His second was believing that Elsa was all right.

And his third—

Well. Pretty much everything after that.

. * * * .

When Jackson Overland had been a human Shepherd's Boy, he'd seen his fair share of blood; the butchering of an animal almost past its prime, or an occasional injury from someone who got a little too careless in the fields. The most Jackson ever really saw was only a couple of scraped knees and elbows—his own, mostly, because as much as his sister needed to learn to pick herself back up, he'd really rather catch her fall in the first place—so the sight of Elsa's gloved hands seeping and dripping with blood

“What the _fuck—_ ” Jack hissed, already half-choking on his revulsion as he skidded and slid across the icy floor. His staff clattered somewhere behind him, and he could hear distant shouting in the hallway outside, which brought his attention to the frozen sheet of ice directly beneath them, the broken and shattered vanity beside them, the blanket of frozen crystal that continued to reach farther and farther along the floor, slipping into the cracks between the boards and under the door, out into—

“Jack _,”_ Elsa whispered tonelessly, at least somewhat aware that he'd at last arrived— _too late_ —but she wouldn't look anywhere but at her hands. The air around her fractured with cold, splitting and splintering the wooden panel of the door when she got too close, and even when Jack's hands cradled her face he couldn't focus, could only distantly hear the sounds of someone frantically calling for the King.

“Elsa, look at me,” he urged, breathless and terrified. She wouldn't look up at him, and he couldn't look down at her hands. “There are people _coming_. We have to—Elsa, _look_.”

He shook her hard, rattling her shoulders against the wood, and at last she looked up into his face. ( _Did she see how terrified he was?_ ) She must have, because at the look of urgency and fear and confusion that must have blown his pupils wide Elsa finally registered the reality of her situation, and the sharpness of her gasp sent another ricocheting cascade of ice down into the floorboards, arching upwards in dangerous, lethal spikes, catching up and holding onto the broken shards of glass from the ruined vanity that lay tattered on its side, and that was when her gasping turned to choking.

There were footsteps pounding down the far end of the corridor, so Jack wasted no time save for a quick and urgent press of his lips to hers, and then with no small amount of pain and urgency and concentrated effort, he _pulled_ the ice from its anchors, twisting and charging and changing its essence, until it was merely a burst of light and magic and _cold_ , and then with a stifled groan, he absorbed every last ounce of it into his chest, directly into the space beside his heart.

It took more than a few breaths for the lights to stop dancing behind his eyes, and by the time he could open them again, he could see that Elsa had started crying. She was hovering over him— _when had he fallen?_ —trying to touch his face but refusing to place her red-stained palms against his cheek, and one of the first things Jack could make out clearly through the dizziness was the trickles of blood seeping out from under the no-longer-pristine whiteness of her gloves.

“Show me your hands,” he demanded, trying to rise, but the sudden rasp to his voice was drowned out by the sound of the staff— _soldiers?_ —reaching the door. Elsa jerked back against the wood as the intruders— _staff?_ —gave the doorknob a vicious twist, and only belatedly, through the pounding of fists upon wood, did Jack register that Elsa had locked her door.

“No,” Elsa whispered, eyes wide towards the shaking handle, and he was about to demand it again when her face twisted and grimaced and shattered apart. When her eyes closed, she clutched onto his sleeves with tainted, gripping fingers, and then her forehead was falling to his aching chest. “This will ruin _everything,_ ” she gasped.

Before he could ask her what she meant, the lock-key unlatched and the door opened, and the Queen stumbled in to find her daughter lying in a crumpled ball on the floor and her hands painted with blood.

. * * * .

Jack could only remember bits and pieces from the next few hours that followed. His awareness slipped in and out, though Elsa later told him that never once did he lose physical consciousness; his stare would lock on something small and insignificant and then his presence of mind would just... disappear.

( _“I couldn't call you back.”_ )

He remembered her mother's pale face, and Olga's frightened shriek, and the King tightly commanding that everyone not amongst the ladies-in-waiting be sent to guard the front entrance, and that the ladies-in-waiting be sent to fetch warm water and tools for aid. He heard Anna's name, once or twice, and he remembered there being a lot of people, and then suddenly barely anyone at all, and watching in mute horror as understanding crept slowly into Elsa's face, the precise moment she realized that her mother was trying to remove her gloves.

Jack had enough presence of mind to witness a vicious kick of Elsa's foot into her mother's chest, and even if he'd been a thousand miles away— _even if he lived ten thousand lifetimes_ —he would never escape the piercing, primal sound of Elsa's desperate warning screams as her father restrained her safely against his chest, and her mother grappled to examine her daughter's hands through her blood-soaked gloves.

( _“We can't risk removing them while she's like this!”_ Jack heard, then slowly drifted.

“ _But to soak them in a bath of water could mean freezing her hands inside...”_ )

What made him angrier—to learn that Elsa had been fed a sleeping draught in order for the King to treat her wounds, or the fact that he hadn't been alert enough to be there as it was happening?

( _“The only reason I didn't need surgical attendance_  
_was because my hands had grown numb enough_  
_to eventually  
__stop the_ _bleeding.”_ )

The final time Jack drifted out of one of his magic-fueled dazes was when Elsa was already fast asleep. It was long past nightfall, and Jack blinked his way back into gazing at the stars through the window, and once his vision had drifted slowly back towards the peaceful figure of an exhausted Princess sleeping in her bed, Jack found himself flying to her side with a jolt. Her hair was loose and tangled and knotted, and even while Elsa slept through the dull haze of a draught-induced slumber, she frowned.

And then, for the longest time, he cried.

. * * * .

It was best for all involved if the gloves were to be worn at all times.

Jack had had no part in the decision, but by the time he was in a place or a position to argue, it was already too late. Elsa had already been through enough an ordeal to have lost her usual confidence— _or whatever was left of it—_ and her fear and exhaustion made her especially susceptible to the well-wishes of her parents. And her guilt.

( _Always, the guilt_.)

The idea had been cemented in Elsa's mind, and there was nothing Jack could say to change it.

By the next morning, for Elsa had slept away the rest of the day and well into the night,the most Jack could do was be present for the long discussion she was to have with the King and Queen, who sat in tall-backed chairs at the side of her bed. Twice, the Queen reached out for the gloved hands that rested gently over Elsa's lap. Twice, she was gently denied.

So Jack watched in silence as the King and Queen desperately tried to sew the rips and tears and shredded pieces back together. It was a quiet sort of talk, full of soft words and hushing sounds, and tear-soaked gazes and voices. ( _“It was an accident_ ,” the Queen reassured her, wetly, like the words meant something. Like they meant anything more now than they did twelve years ago, on a night with such similar circumstances it could hardly be spoken of. “ _It wasn't your fault.”_

“ _Anna is safe.”_ )

Elsa did not fidget with her thick nightgown— _high-collared, long-sleeved_ —nor the perfectly white gloves that covered what the nightgown did not, from slender wrist to each slender fingertip. They'd been a present for her seventeenth birthday; she'd never thought she'd wear them.

The King and Queen weren't going to get the full story from her— _which meant that Jack was still the only one she trusted_ —which meant that they couldn't know, anymore than they ever had, how to help her. (Maybe they didn't know that she called them panic attacks, but at least maybe now they'd caught onto the fact that she had them.) Maybe Elsa would be more courageous— _more terrified than ever_ —when it came to telling them what was going on inside her head. Maybe, finally, she wouldn't be so alone.

Maybe he should have started learning from his mistakes.

. * * * .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings:** Descriptions of panic attack/anxiety, brief mention of physical violence, repeated mentions of blood, implied usage of medicinal drugs/sedatives.
> 
> If you finish the chapter and feel that there are any others that should be added to the list, please let me know! Thank you!


	195. - was yours -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/23/15_. **BETA'D** by the lovely **ALISON** and **ABBY**.
> 
> ( **Note:** Similar trigger warnings as the previous chapter, except for the violence.)

 

. * * * .  
  


_\- was yours -_   
  


. * * * .

 

“I was looking for Anna,” she explained quietly, three long, difficult nights later. Jack still didn't know exactly what happened, and the story was slow in coming; the sleeping draught warded off nightmares, but painful memories still found their ways to torture in the daylight, all the same.

The King had a solution for that, too.

He swallowed, hard, and chose his words carefully. Jack already had a sense of where this was going. “You wanted to try again,” he whispered. “To fix things.” His voice wavered, because if he spoke any louder then he might accidentally unleash the words he was dying to say, the useless _what were you thinking?_ and _what were you hoping would happen?_ and the _why the hell didn't you wait for me?_

Elsa took a deep, steadying breath; the _medicine_ , as the doctors called it, as the King had ordered, made sure that Elsa was capable of them. She couldn't stay this way for long— _tired and lethargic and only half-alert, docile and exhausted and feelings only half-full_ —but until the gashes in her hands healed, her parents wouldn't have it any other way. In her current state, Elsa wasn't in much of a position to disagree.

“I didn't find her,” Elsa answered softly, eyes slightly glazed and staring straight ahead. He hated the sight of her like this. Her lips were dry, so when she reached an unsteady hand out to find the glass of water on her nightstand, Jack retrieved it for her. The water didn't look like it helped, much. A soft, gasping breath left frost over the rim, but Jack hid it before she could see.

“Then what happened?” he asked evenly, and slowly lowered the glass out of sight, below the line of the mattress. A single glance reassured him that Elsa's eyes were fixated on something out of reach, and then with a soft gasp of pain, he made the frost disappear. He set the glass back down onto the nightstand with a stiff, steady arm, and hid his hand in his pocket.

(The Guardians had summoned him twice, with increasing urgency, with the same message _—where are you?_ and _are you all right?_

“ _Why don't you come and see for yourself?”_ he'd snarl to the stars, and refuse them.)

( _They could wait a few meager days.  
_ _Jamie could wait.  
_ _They could continue their mission without him.  
_ _It was quite honestly the least they could do; Jack trusted bitterly that they would._ )

“And then… I found her.”

The sigh heaved from his chest, slouching him in his seat, but Elsa didn't seem to notice. For a moment, he allowed himself to merely look at her, unwary of his expression. Elsa wasn't looking at him. She wasn't much aware of anything.

Slanting his jaw to the side, Jack pushed himself off the back of the chair her mother usually occupied and leaned onto the plush of the blankets. She didn't withdraw her hands when he reached for them—the way she did for anyone else—and as his jaw hinged, back and forth, he felt his eyes well with tears, and he thought, _Maybe she's isn't as unaware as she looks._

“Then what?” he choked, then cleared his throat, hard and heavy, as he blinked away the tears. Now was not the time.

He ran a thumb over the seam in one gloved fingertip, gentle and slow, and wondered how he could have ever thought they'd be able to manage any of this on their own.

( _He wondered what Elsa would have wanted him to do, in this moment.  
_ _Would she have wanted him to fight for her?  
_ _Would she have wanted him to drag the Guardians back down here, kicking and screaming?  
_ _Would she have been satisfied with these decisions, with all the choices people were making for her?  
_ _When the medicine ran out, and the gloves stayed on, would Elsa be content with the choices he'd made?_

 _They should have talked about this when they'd had the chance._ )

“I knew what was happening, even before it fully came,” Elsa answered slowly, breaking Jack from his hopeless reverie. “That's how often they come now, you understand.”

 _I do,_ he pursed his lips together, tracing the line of thread over her thumb. _I wish I didn't_.

( _How long would it be_ , he wondered,  
 _until she let him see her bare hands again?_ )

“So I fled,” she whispered, back in that moment, in that daze. Jack held more tightly to her fingertips, grounding her in the present, lest she drown herself in remembered fright— _medicine_ , or no. “She... must have seen me. And followed.”

Slowly, Jack's forehead lowered itself to the comforter. The pieces came crashing slowly together.

“What did she see?” he asked, voice muffled by the fabric. His hands were still limp in her lap, holding gently onto hers. They were recovering, but not yet healed. It would be some time before she could hold his hands again, the way he wanted her to.

“Almost nothing,” she answered softly. “She was called away for tea before I'd... before the worst of it. She only saw the very first traces, I think. And even then... the Trolls' magic must be very powerful.” At her pause, Jack raised his head. She was looking at him—not _through_ him—and his heart promptly skipped a beat.

“What do you mean?” he asked, with a throat that was very, very dry.

“I knew she wasn't outside the door anymore,” Elsa went on, either ignoring his question, or not having heard it. “I _knew_ she wasn't in danger, but I... her voice had been so close.” Her lips were dry again. Jack should really have given her more water. ( _But will you be able to hide the frost_ this _time?_ ) “Just having heard her voice was enough to trigger more dread, and then once it started I couldn't get the panic to _stop,_ and... and when my hands started bleeding, I slipped... It brought me back to that night, when I'd slipped and fell back on the ice, and my aim...”

( _But how?_ demanded Jack.

 _Why were you bleeding?_ )

After a long, awful moment of hazy silence, Elsa shifted on the bed, settling herself more deeply into the pillows. Her hands dragged along her lap, and Jack's fingers helplessly followed. “Her memories of my magic must truly be gone,” Elsa mused wistfully, staring at the canopy. ( _Buried_ , thought Jack, desperately. _Buried_ —) “I know she saw some measure of light creeping under the door before she was lured away... but she didn't assume it was _mine_.”

 _Well, of course she wouldn't just assume that someone had powers that could—_ “Wait. What do you mean she didn't assume it was _yours?_ ”

Elsa's grimace almost looked like a smile.

“Because,” she whispered, and tilted her head to look at him, to stare into his wide, blue eyes. “The name she said was yours.”

. * * * .


	196. - the puzzle -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/23/15_. **BETA'D** by **ALISON** and **ABBY**. ♥
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com)   
>  [dreamwidth](http://therentyoupay.dreamwidth.org)

 

. * * * .

  
\- _the puzzle_ -  
  


. * * * .

 

Jack had never forgotten his promise to watch over Anna, but he couldn't remember what he'd told Elsa of her, afterwards.

“It was easier to simply... trust that she was safe in your care,” Elsa murmured, hazily fighting off sleep. It was a full day after Elsa had first felt well enough to speak with him about the events that had led her to this daze, but the conversation had left him with more questions than answers. The medicine that was keeping her _calm_ also regularly kept her less than lucid.

“She was,” Jack reassured her, then faltered. “ _Is_ , I mean.”

And that was the end of that conversation, for a while.

. * * * .

He needed to investigate.  
_If Anna still believes, then—_  
  
But that would come later.

. * * * .

In some instances, Elsa was still very much the same young woman he knew—bright and beautiful, a small smile playing at her lips.

But her brightness had dimmed, in small increments and foul swoops, and something about the sharpness of her spirit had dulled—at least for the moment. There was a limpness to her unwashed hair, no matter how much Olga doted over her, and there was a tinge of gray that seemed to seep into the very light of the room. She looked pale, and sickly, in too many different ways.

An alert came during one of Elsa's long naps, directly through the gleam of the snow globe from the Wonder Guardian himself. Jack gave it a lazy shake, unveiling North's face behind the snowfall, and for a moment Jack only glared into the glass.

“REPORT,” North demanded, clipped and professional and noticeably— _but_ _only because Jack had known him for so many years_ —fraught with concern.

Jack glanced up at Elsa's sleeping form upon the bed. She was in too deep a sleep, or whatever the drug did to her, to hear them.

“I won't be back for a few days,” Jack answered unapologetically. “There's too much going on in Arendelle.”

North's frown held a distinct note of caution. _Watch yourself,_ Jack silently warned, and narrowed his eyes.

“JAMIE IS—”

“Fine without me,” Jack reminded him. _Apparently_. “He can last a few days on his own supply of fun.”

“HE HAS SHARED THE TYPEWRITER,” North told him—quietly, like it was an intimate secret, like it was something precious, _which it was—_ but the resounding echo of the glass gave it a much larger presence in his mind than a normal whisper ever could. North was watching Jack's face for a reaction, but Jack only darted his eyes upwards, seeking another quick glance to the bed. “WITH _PIPPA_ ,” he urged him.

 _So this is how things are going to go?_ Jack frowned, staring at a spot on the floor between the two targets, between Assignment and fellow Guardian. Between the person he needed most in the world and the one the world apparently needed, both _so much more_ and so much of what he existed for. There it was. _Split, in two impossible directions_ —

(— _right down the middle._ )

“This is it,” Jack murmured, his heart dropping into his stomach. _It will always be like this, now…_ Jack found himself in a daze of his own, with all the years of burden stretching out before him. _It’s never going to get any easier._

“SHE HAS JOINED HIS SEARCH,” North went on, either dismissing his comment, or having missed it, and Jack rolled his eyes with impatience. _Can’t you just let me get through_ one _existential crisis uninterrupted, old man?_

He could not.

“SHE WAS RELUCTANT AT FIRST, BUT HE HAS CONVINCED HER,” North boomed, and Jack ran an agitated hand through his thick hair. His nerves were already on edge, so the booming quality of North’s voice began to take on a special flare of grating. “SANDY'S DREAMS HAVE BEEN PULLING UP TRACES FROM YEARS PAST. WE LEFT BOOK FOR THEM TO FIND IN THE ATTIC—”

“See? He's fine. Already recruiting members to the cause. He's doing exactly what you wanted, isn't he? I don't need to be around for him to strike up some—”

“IT'S YOURS,” North barreled over him, gaze hard and meaningful through the orb of glass, and for a terrible moment Jack was dazed by a dizzying feeling of deja vu. Jack's lips parted—in surprise or confusion, he couldn’t tell—and then North simply dropped the dazzling bombshell, “THE BOOK, JACK.”

Jack felt the ground give way beneath him. For a long moment, Jack merely sat in a blank abyss, stunned.

“What book?” he whispered, before he could hold his tongue.

North allowed him a moment of silence, perhaps to let the truth of his words sink in. If it was meant to calm him, then it had the opposite effect.

“ _YOUR_ BOOK,” North repeated, just words in empty space, so much more gently than Jack could have ever imagined. Words without meaning but with _so much meaning_ , just soft sounds and the barest trickles of something important dancing at the edges, hanging just out of Jack's reach. His eyes were very clear, and very blue, and very honest, and eventually North continued, announced, “GUARDIANS OF ICE... JACK FROST, AND OTHER—”

“Myths,” Jack finished breathlessly, and felt his insides explode with _want_.

North nodded.

The snow globe creaked in his tightening fingers. He ached to hurtle it across the room, wanted to crush it into his fingers. Freeze it solid with ice and watch it splinter apart, shattering into thousands of irreparable pieces, fly them out into the sky and watch them disappear into space, into the ocean, into the clouds.

“HE READ IT THIS MORNING,” came North's gentle admission, and it was only then that Jack realized he had tears in his eyes.

A heavy lump clogged his throat. The ceiling was still gray, and the light still cast a dull and hollow glow, but the bottom lip caught between his teeth still ached with pain, and his lashes still flicked away tears, and Jack was still very much alive, and disgusted by the force of his own surge of Hope.

The sudden desperation struck him like a staff to the face, and for a few unexpected moments of discomposure, Jack had to focus simply on not throwing up.

“ _He_ —knows my name?” he demanded, flinching when his voice cracked under the strain. He was breathing so much harder than he should have been. _Stupid question,_ his mind spat. _Every person who’s ever heard a Christmas carol knows your name. Of course he’s heard your name._ But that wasn’t what he was asking.

His shaking fingertips dug uselessly against solid glass; North's even, solemn expression stared carefully back.

“HE KNOWS THE MYTH,” North replied, eyebrows dancing high, a rare breed of playfulness that Jack had not yet learned to trust, and Jack glared cautiously back, hard with skepticaleyes. His chest caved and burst so fiercely that he was practically shuddering. “PIPPA REGARDS THE STORY THE SAME AS ALL OTHERS, BUT JAMIE... THE BOY CAN FEEL THAT SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT.”

A beat, then Jack nodded, tight and controlled, accepting this news with as much calm strength as he could. And then he looked away, pounding his aching fist just once onto the floor—a single, fierce, otherwise silent glimpseof impossible frustration. His inner-cheek was leaking blood.

“WE WILL SUSTAIN HIM WHILE YOU TEND TO ELSA,” North hedged, and— _and what were they doing?_

( _How could they try to handle all of this at once?  
__What if Jamie read that storybook a hundred times over and never—_ )

“WE UNDERSTAND YOUR DUTIES. RETURN TO THE POLE AS SOON AS YOU ARE ABLE.”

Jack wouldn't even know where to begin to look for the words.

And then North's face disappeared in a swirl of snow, his purpose officially complete.

The tiny snowflakes inside the glass continued to fall, twirling and spiraling in their little haven, protected from touch or contamination, or any of the other things that made the world a little less pure. Jack watched them for a very long time, either unable or unwilling to speak, or think, or feel, and then he lowered himself to the wooden floorboards, and lay gingerly on his side, staring blankly at the storm of enchanted snowflakes in a small, magical snow globe on the floor, and desperately reminded himself that this was exactly where he needed to be, until he believed it to be true.

. * * * .

( _“So Anna still believes in you, too,”_ Elsa whispered thoughtfully,  
staring with unseeing eyes at the canopy, while Jack listened, his heart breaking, rapt with silence.

“ _I wonder why?”_ )

. * * * .

Over the course of an entire week, Jack pieced the puzzle together.

On the last morning before the world shattered all to hell, Elsa had left the so-called safety of her rooms in search of Anna, hoping once more to make amends before the start of summer and all of its adventures and wonders and discontents. Elsa had known—had _realized—_ early on that the enduring stress was enough to trigger an attack, especially in her weakening state, even before she set out into the halls. ( _Yeah._

 _But did that stop you?_ )

She'd persisted on and ignored all the signs, and by the time she was on the cusp of finding her sister in the main library, she began to fear that it was already too late; even if she _had_ managed to lure her sister into a conversation, or some sort of diversion, Elsa knew that it would only be interrupted by a very pressing, very urgent physical ordeal. ( _“It was an especially strong one,”_ she'd admitted, over and over again, like it was supposed to make either of them feel any better about her choices. Or maybe even his. _“I could tell.”_ ) Instead of turning back immediately, Elsa longed for one final glimpse of her sister—and _that,_ she said, had been the ultimate thread of her undoing.

(“ _I didn't see Anna's face,”_ Elsa whispered, too dazed to be caught with shame. _“But I'm sure she saw mine_.”)

Which had led Elsa back into the supposed sanctuary of her room, with a locked door and gasping lungs, and once the dam had broken, there was no going back. She heard Anna's curious voice beyond the door, and— _for the first time in as many years a she could remember_ —a quiet, familiar knock.

( _“I think... I think that's when I lost it, maybe."_  
“ _Lost what?”  
_ “ _My_ _mind.”_ )

Terrified beyond all belief, and now certain that history was doomed to repeat itself—( _“'To finish what I started,'_ _this voice kept whispering inside my head,”_ and Jack paled)—Elsa had raced in a flash of light to the vanity, spitting sparkling frost and icy cracks along the walls, fracturing the mirrors and shedding diamonds from her eyes, all in an effort to find at least one of the pairs of gloves she knew to be inside one of the many locked drawers.

Elsa never explicitly explained how her hands came to be such a bloodied, broken mess.

 _(But from the splintered wood of the vanity—a present, he recalled, for her eighth birthday—and the ruined array of tools and hairbrushes and silver-inlaid mirrors that had lain amongst the rough, shredded edges of drawers with no handles—  
__was there really any need?_ )

And when at last all was in tatters and Elsa had found a too-small pair of white, silk gloves, Anna had already been called away long before, off to the safety of tea and _normalcy_ and a simple, happy life completely unremarkable to her—called away by some unsuspecting, _unwitting_ , some lovely member of the staff. No one had been near enough to hear the deafening crash of the vanity onto ice-streaked floors, but they had _felt_ it from the floor below, and it was then, as Elsa dry-sobbed herself to the floor, that she slowly slipped the first white glove over the torn and splintered skin of her shaking left hand.

She'd curled against the door, hardly aware of the pain dripping from her palms, only half-noticing that her breathing was evening out, was improving, but was forcefully struck with a _certainty_ that no one should be able to open the door, no matter what, and _if only there were a way to keep them out? If she had a door and a lock made of ice? What would it be like,_ she'd wondered, _to build an entire castle where she could keep them all away—safe? Where she could_ be— _away?_

And that was when Jack found her.

. * * * .


	197. - alliteration helps -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _8/27/15_.

 

. * * * .  
  
_\- alliteration helps -_

. * * * .

 

The Guardians wondered aloud if Pitch might have had anything to do with Elsa's accident; Jack knew in his very heart and soul that Pitch _hadn't_ , but he was half-tempted to lie. _Maybe then you'd do something_.

“He may be in Arendelle, and he may know about Elsa,”he conceded, to a small audience full of attentive ears. “But this was just... her. The kind of fear that Elsa has is different.”

“Lots of adult fears come from childish ones,” Bunny reminded him.

“I know. But this... the enemy this time isn't just the Bogey Man. There's stuff inside Elsa's head that we can't reach, and she doesn't know how to fight yet, and it doesn't help that she's like a tiny, ticking, time-bomb while shit just gets worse and worse.”

Bunny's eyes darkened. “Sounds like something right up Pitch's alley.”

Jack didn't know what to say to that, and was grateful when Toothiana took the fight from his hands. “Until we see black sand, or shadows, we'll just keep doing what we have been. Jack will continue his Assignment in Arendelle in between trips to Burgess. We'll continue with the protection of teeth and the transfer of Memory Boxes, and put pressure on the Old Ones to start their preparations.”

“What about my other stuff?” Jack found himself asking, arms crossed and chest tight. _What happened to the whole 'the world does not stop for one person' thing? Or two? "_ School districts are seeing record lows in snow days, you know."

Toothiana allowed herself a smirk. ( _Had the Guardians always met this frequently?_ Jack found himself wondering. Would he always see them this often, when the world eventually calmed, once more? It was a striking thought.)

“It's about time you made yourself some helpers,” she grinned, bright white teeth flashing in the golden sunset. “Don't you think?”

. * * * .

“This is stupid,” Jack gasped, as he fell flat on his ass—once again. “I don't have _time_ for this.”

“Which is precisely why you're doing it, you frost-weasel.”

“Just feel your magic _flowing_ , Jack,” Toothiana was trying to coach. There was an entire flock of tiny fairies hovering nearby, many with miniature scrolls of parchment and quills for note-taking, and one particularly audacious one slipped onto his shoulder to poke his jaw with her quill. He blinked, and she furiously scribbled more notes. “It is an extension of you. You know this. Now it's time to use that same mentality— _extend_ the magic even further outwards, until it's completely out, yet—still a part of you. Until it _is_ you, but free.”

It sounded like something he might have tried to tell Elsa once. “I should be in Arendelle,” he announced grimly, and felt a vague pang of guilt when Tooth's expression took on a distinct wave of disappointment. “I can try this tomorrow, can't I?” he offered hastily.

“You could,” Toothiana hedged, reluctantly. “But it won't be any easier tomorrow, Jack.”

Jack scoffed and let his head fall back, just for one irritated moment. “Story of my life,” he muttered, sending the two of them a wayward glance.

“If you'd stop complaining for half-a-second and start _focusing_ , you ruddy numbskull, you'd start to see what we're talking about.”

“Says the guy whose enchanted eggs are actually _aliens_ ,” Jack sniped, feeling annoyance and frustration rub raw against his nerves. “You didn't have to go through any of this shit.”

“You think it's easy keeping an entire army of—”

“ _Enough_ ,” scolded Tooth, and the sudden severity of her voice practically sliced through the air between them, effectively shutting them down. Or _up_ , depending on how one looked at it. With a startled, collective _meep!_ , the fairies determinedly fled into the relative safety of the golden palace, leaving trio of Guardians to hash things out on the balcony. Disgruntled and subdued, Bunny and Jack both turned slightly away from one another, arms crossed and rigidly tense. Toothiana sighed, long and loud, and honestly, Jack didn't know how she put up with either of them.

“Jack,” she started anew, with a fresh bloom of patience that Jack was sure she kept hidden somewhere secret, in a deep reserve underneath a fortress of gold, or something. “Jack, the reason that we are doing this _now_ is because your priorities have jumped very high on our lists, and they happen to require a great deal of time and attention. We can't let your other duties fall by the wayside. Which _means_ ,” Toothiana cut over him, already anticipating his protest, “that you are going to need to rely on the strategies that we've been using for centuries.”

“But my powers are different. I'm not _actually_ winter. There's Mother Nature, and the natural seasons and stuff. I just help the frost along, and make kids play around, I haven't _needed_ any helpers—”

“Don't you feel it, Jack?” whispered Tooth, eyes alight in the sudden hush. Jack felt his words die in his throat. “Haven't you felt your powers growing?”

He could feel Bunny's intense gaze burning into him, just as was quite suddenly reminded of the magnitude of the magical presence before him. Ancient magic and powerful creatures, and a strange and creeping awareness in his blood that sang, _I do._

_I have._

“I'm always learning new stuff about my powers,” Jack argued reasonably, ignoring for the time-being the stupid singing in his blood. It was too much to think about right now. “I was playing with frost swirls for almost three hundred years before I realized I could use my staff as a weapon. It doesn't mean that my powers are _growing_ ,” he pointed out. “Maybe I'm just becoming less ignorant of them.”

It was a perfect opportunity for Bunny to make a jab, but he didn't take the bait. Instead, he pondered Jack's words rather pensively, which made Jack a lot more nervous than he ought to be.

“Although,” he found himself admitting, without his actual permission, under the calm and patient scrutiny of his well-meaning Guardians. “I did... just learn a new trick, recently. But I don't think it's something I'm supposed to do very often,” he added quickly, biting his cheek. “I don't know what I'm doing, actually, when I do it. And I mean like, what’s actually _happening_ inside of me when I do it, not just _how_ to make it happen, other than just to _pull_ and concentrate and _see_ in my head what needs to happen—”

“What is it that you're doing?” asked Tooth, curiously. And Bunny, who could care less about the mechanics of frost and snow, looked interested in spite of himself.

“I found out I can... _absorb_ some of Elsa's magic?” Jack looked to them, feeling his brows furrow in thought. Toothiana's eyes widened, but she let him continue, and Jack didn't know whether to feel encouraged or very, very worried. “I've only done it twice." Maybe three times. "In really... risky moments, when there wasn't any other choice. When she was at risk of hurting herself, or getting caught—”

“Magic isn't necessarily supposed to be _absorbed_ , Jack,” Toothiana cautioned gently. “Not unless it's _given_.”

Jack's jaw twitched. “Yeah, well—that's the impression I got,” he muttered, looking to the floor. “It—it really sort of messed with me.”

“How so?”

He tilted his head back and forth. “Pretty... badly. I knew I wasn't supposed to do it after just the first time, but the second time—I felt like I didn't have any choice. The first time wasn't so bad,” Jack bit his lip, thinking hard. “Just... dizziness. I felt sick to my stomach, and I felt tired, but I figured that might just be from the novelty of it. The second time, though...” Jack paused, unsure he was willing to divulge just how much danger he'd put himself in. “I won't be doing it ever again, if I can help it.”

Toothiana regarded him with serious, thoughtful eyes, and said nothing. Bunnymund nodded his head, and sighed, and said, “Well, that might explain why you're having a harder time letting your magic _out,_ if you've been taking Elsa's _in.”_ He scratched his chin with one clawed finger. “Absorption—it's not good for anybody, but it's especially not good for you with Elsa, since your magic is so different.”

Jack frowned, unbidden. “Different? What the hell are you talking about?” His stomach clenched in outrage. “She's the only other person I've ever met in all the worlds who has powers even remotely similar to mine! That was the whole point of why I was made her Guardian, wasn't it? Because if there's one thing that's always connected us, it's—”

“Hold your bloody horses. Your _abilities_ are the same, or at least similar, but your magic is not.”

Jack froze. Hardened his jaw and reluctantly asked, “What do you mean?”

“He means that you and Elsa have very different sources,” Toothiana edged in smoothly, before Jack could lose his head, or Bunny could lose _his_. “We don't know _where_ Elsa's magic comes from—or even Rapunzel's, for that matter—but ours comes from the Moon, and through him—children's Belief. So much of what we are is rooted in the Light, and it's that stream of innocence and purity that propels our lives eternally forward. Elsa's magic is rooted so deeply in _emotion,_ and hers are very... Well. It’s a discussion for another day, certainly. Elsa’s magic is...”

“More complex,” Bunny answered for her, with a tone that gave Jack the distinct impression that he was being _diplomatic_.

“Less pure?” Jack arched a challenging brow, staring Bunny down.

“Less predictable,” Toothiana interrupted smoothly. “And by consequence, far more dangerous.” Her gaze told a hundred different meanings when she looked him in the eye and said, “I'm glad you're okay, Jack.”

(And he wouldn't admit it, not _ever—_  
But. Maybe.  
Maybe he was beginning to feel the same way.)

“So,” Toothiana cut short the introspection, with a renewed level of brightness that was _way_ over anything Jack was currently capable of. “Let's sprout you some little Frost Nuggets, shall we?”

. * * * .

It wasn't easy.

In fact, it was probably one of the hardest things Jack had ever done.

It wasn't like Toothiana, whose _true_ level of power continued to astonish him with each passing year, because he didn't have the kind of patience or pitch-perfect control or (straight-up _fortitude_ ) needed for any actual splicing. It wasn't like Bunnymund either, because he couldn't call upon any forces from the distant planets to come to his aid. (And really, he wasn't that big a fan of rocks.) It wasn't like North's either, who contracted living creatures into long lives of hard work and free cookies and competitive benefits packages, and although the Yetis might be willing to help with his dancing and they might really like the cold, they weren't really equipped for _fun_.

So the process was most like Sandy's, although still uniquely his own. While the Dream Sand started with a single speck and _grew_ into the creatures and visions found within little minds, and then took on movements and miracles of their own, if not actual _lives_ or _souls_ or whatever it was that separated the sand-creatures from the rest, well—Jack's frost didn't have that kind of magnitude yet.

But he _did_ have some creativity.

“Hey,” whispered Jack soothingly, throat still thick with disbelief. The small frost bunny rustled in his lap, twitching its transparent nose. This one was different—there was _more_ of him in this one, more so than any other frost creature he'd made before. More of his magic, yes, but more of _him,_ and that sounded stupid no matter how many times he thought it, but he couldn't seem to find any other way to explain it, to share what was happening inside— _outside_ —of him. Jack's eyes stung as he smiled, and the tiny little rabbit skittered over his ankles. “ _Hey,”_ he laughed, and stroked a gentle hand over the long line of one ear, over impossibly soft fur.

“I'm fucking flattered, Frost,” ribbed Bunnymund, which was the surest sign that he was in a wickedly good mood. Jack laughed in spite of himself, still petting his frost bunny's ear, still inordinately pleased over how calming it was for this little bunny to be met with the touch of its creator.

“It's not entirely you,” Jack laughed again, taking extra joy in bursting Bunny's bubble. “You can thank Jamie for the inspiration for this one.” _Again_.

( _Funny_ , Jack thought,  
how Jamie always seemed to the be the one saving Jack,  
whether he realized it or not,  
even when Jack was doing his best to save _him_.)

“What are you going to name him?” Toothiana asked eagerly, hovering closely over Jack's shoulder. She was dying to hold the frost bunny in her arms, herself, but was holding herself at bay, allowing Jack his moment. He found himself feeling incredibly grateful.

“I don't know,” Jack laughed breathlessly, staring into big round eyes and feeling a little hopeful and hopeless all at once. He could _feel_ himself residing somewhere in that little bundle of frost. But smaller. Wiser. _Kinder_.

“You could name him Jackie, for short,” Toothiana suggested, suddenly quite unable to help herself from reaching around Jack's arm and scratching the softness atop the creature's head.

“Short for _what?_ ” Bunny groused.

“For anything,” Toothiana replied contentedly, completely without care. “An entire family of critters, all starting with J?” Toothiana nudged him with a conspiratorial wink. “Alliteration helps bring about a sense of community.”

“Says _who?_ ”

“Jackie,” repeated Jack, testing the sounds on his tongue. The bunny looked up at him, wide eyes and alert ears, and somewhere deep inside him, Jack felt his heart begin to melt.

 _I made you_ , a little voice whispered, shocked with disbelief, and something so much deeper than pride.

“I like it,” Jack decided, as Toothiana smirked, and Jackie twitched, and Bunnymund flat-out slapped himself in the face.

. * * * .

Jackie was soon joined by Jacqueline, a trickster frost-fox who gave Jack an inexplicable _certainty_ that she was more of a sister than a brother, and a little frosty owl named Jax. Jacqueline was _definitely_ of Jack's brood, and pride erupted all over the place as she played in the snow outside the Workshop (Phil was taking pictures with one of the cameras) and messed with Jackie, who held his own, and once the wisps of magic and enchanted snowflakes started swirling out of each of them, well—Jack had never really known a kind of happiness like this before.

(Jax was kind of an asshole, as Bunny pointed out. Repeatedly.  
But Jack loved him anyway.)

( _He knew that_ now _was the right time for this to have happened, like Tooth had said.  
__But he still couldn't help but look back to three hundred years of solitude, and wonder—?_ )

“All right, guys,” said Jack, soft and proud and hopeful. “Time to go.”

And so they went, off to each continent, each equipped with their own tiny snow globes attached to little icy collars, and Jack felt rather warm knowing that as he darted back out into the Darkness, out there in the distance, there were little tiny pieces of him, ready to Light the way.

. * * * .

“You look rather pleased,” remarked Elsa, who'd grown more cautious with her smiles. She was sitting up in bed, holding an open book in her lap between her bandaged, gloved hands. Jack placed a kiss to her forehead, and then to the corner of her lips, and then to her nose— “What's gotten into you?”

“What's gotten _out_ of me, more like,” Jack quipped, plopping back onto the comforter beside her. He was nearly restless with positivity. It was a rare sight, these days.

“Indeed,” murmured Elsa, quite willing to let him be ridiculous. She was always so tired now, even if the so-called medicine was no longer in her system, and Jack didn't blame her for not playing along with his game and asking him what'd happened that (glorious) afternoon. She was determined to keep the gloves on, at least for the time being, and given what they'd been through, Jack understood.

Suddenly, he rolled over, ramming his shoulder into her thigh. He nudged his temple onto her lap, ignoring her indignant cry over her disregarded book, and pulled one gloved palm closer to his face. “How are the hands?” he asked, nestling further into the pool of blankets that covered her.

At first Elsa only glared down at him, mild and unsurprised. He'd learned that she'd let him play with the edges of her gloves as long as he made no efforts to move them. So he did.

“Healing,” she replied, same vague answer as always, but now Jack could actually sort of _feel_ the difference. She didn't gasp or hiss or twist her hands away when he lightly touched his fingers over the seams. It was a good sign. “How is Jamie?”

Jack let his lips curl back in an honest, cocksure grin. He was still playing with her hands— _gloves_ —and his head was rather comfortable, the back of his skull nestled in the warm space between her thighs, and Jack thought he'd earned himself a moment of happy arrogance.

“The asshole is researching,” Jack told her, unable to deny the happy flicker of contentment flitting through his stomach. “ _Me_.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“An hour or two ago,” he replied, tracing the outline of her fingers. “He got into an argument with Cupcake over the existence of a storybook called the _Big Four._ ” Jack grinned. “It doesn't actually exist, as far as I know, but that wasn't what made the argument so cool. Cupcake remembered—on her own, I think—that some characters she used to know from a fairy tale were called the Big Four.”

“The Guardians?”

“Yeah,” Jack couldn’t stop grinning. “But Jamie was positive that there were _Five_.”

Elsa stared down at him, searching for understanding. “He meant you,” she concluded.

Jack's grin widened. “ _Exactly_.”

“Did Cupcake remember, then?”

“Not yet,” Jack shrugged, unconcerned. “But at least he got her thinking. Half the time, Jamie's just pulling things out of his ass without realizing where he got them from. The lab is trying to call him back in early for a new research proposal, but Jamie's refusing to go before he figures this out. He's thinking of bringing everything up to Sophie soon, even though she was so much younger when it all happened. We're not sure if that'll make it easier, or harder, or—”

“It sounds like the plan is working.”

Jack fought hard to cling to his ray of Hope. “It looks that way,” he hedged, reluctantly. “Can't put all your eggs in one basket though.”

( _Or your Believers_.)

“Hm,” Elsa mused, and gently slid a hand over to run her fingers through his hair. It didn't feel the same, because the fabric slipped through the strands too easily, and Jack missed the warmth of her skin, and the feeling of her sharp fingernails dragging over his skull. But it was still Elsa, and she was safe, and _healing_ , and that was enough. “How are the others?”

“Claude and Caleb? They're all right. Always bickering, but they're getting some pretty cool stuff in their journals. They're planning to ship out again soon, but who knows 'cuz they're surprised by all the _inspiration_ they're suddenly getting. Like, they don't really know why they keep getting struck with numbers that end up being the coordinates for the North Pole, or drawing doodles of yetis all the time—”

“I meant the other children,” Elsa combed through his hair, and Jack's soft-spoken report about Monty's antidepressants and blanket-nests quickly died on his tongue. “ _All_ the others. Have you had many snow days?”

Unbidden, a very _real_ burst of emotion split his smile wide. “Oh. About that,” Jack found himself grinning, suddenly fidgety and restless practically itching to tell her. When Elsa got a look in her eye that told him she was just about ready to pin him down with an elbow, he beamed, “You are, like, never gonna guess what the hell I was able to _do_ today.”

Without really knowing what he was doing—or how it would work, or why, only that it _would_ —Jack leaned the crown of his head back into Elsa’s smooth stomach and placed two cold fingers to his mouth, and gave a low, long whistle, the way he used to do when was a kid. As an _actual_ kid. (But not just any whistle; this was a very particular whistle, with a certain note and a certain call, with a certain somethingin mind—)

And then, there, at the foot of the bed, opened a tiny portal just a moment later, and out jumped Jackie, gently shaking off a light dusting of snow.

“Meet Jackie,” he introduced, about to lose his heart all over again, and when the frost bunny crawled up Elsa's legs and sat on Jack's face, his chest almost burst with pride. Elsa watched, astounded, as the rabbit tried to burrow into Jack's ear.

“Another frost illusion?” she pondered, tilting her head curiously, but when she reached out a gloved hand to touch the frost as she normally would—she gasped, and pulled her hand away. “ _Not_ an illusion?”

He told her the tale excitedly, with all of the funny nuances of Bunny's annoyance and Tooth's amazement—the kinds of things that he recently found himself leaving out for one reason or another—and talked of clever Jacqueline and brutish Jax and _do you see what this means, Elsa?_

_It's not perfect, but I can finally, finally, finally be in more than one place at once._

Elsa listened with a silent, attentive ear, always stroking the long line of soft fur from Jackie's forehead to his tail. She was very quiet, which told him that she was thinking very carefully about what he'd shown her. He'd been waiting all day to share this with her; he wanted to hear what she thought.

“How did you do it?” she whispered, with barely a voice at all. “This magic... are these creatures—alive?”

Jack laughed, unable to contain his happiness. “Depends on what you consider 'alive'. They're real, all right—I just don't know if you could really call them _living_.” She gave him an odd look, but said nothing. He meant to ask her what she was thinking about—but then Jackie's nose burrowed just a little _too_ deeply into his ear. “Ow! Dammit, Jackie—!”

“So now that you have helpers, like the other Guardians,” Elsa mused, solemn and thoughtful, “there will be less urgency for you to seek out the other children.”

Jack playfully pushed Jackie away, then smirked lightly when he nuzzled into Jack's chest. Somehow, Jack's right temple had ended up against Elsa's stomach, and she'd gotten rather upside down. “Well, I'll always be looking for opportunities to get out in the worlds and stir up some Fun for the kids,” Jack answered reasonably. “These three little guys are just helping to fill in the gaps.” Jack lifted Jackie into the air above him, then swooped him down, lowering him directly over his face, until they were staring wide-eyed at one another and Jack's mouth was open in a drastic 'O' and Jack didn't actually _recognize_ any of the cooing noises coming out of his mouth. This was hardly dignified, but Bunnymund wasn't around to blackmail him for it, so what the fuck ever.

“What will you do with the time that they've afforded you?”

“Stay here, of course,” Jack answered easily, lifting and dropping Jackie—higher and lower, higher and lower. He was so fucking _cute_. “And go back to Burgess whenever I'm needed. That's the plan, now.”

“The plan?”

“From the Guardians. Bunny was given a couple of weeks' leave when his most recent Assignment was in need, so I'm allowed the same.” Of course, Hiccup was already well into his Turning Point by that time, and Elsa was still showing no sign of reaching hers. _It's still the same concept, I guess_. Nothing about Elsa had ever been typical, as far as Assignments or even non-Assignments went, so who the hell were they to think that her Turning Point would be any different? “I get some time to focus, and these guys help me out.”

“Do the others know what it is you're focusing on?”

Jack's movements stilled at the gentle press of her glove to the side of his neck. His playing slowly came to an abrupt end, and Jackie twitched his nose rather furiously in protest.

“Hey,” Jack muttered, and scratched him behind the ears. “Go play,” he murmured, still an order, and sent him off to go find some Fun in Arendelle. Jackie disappeared with a hop through the open window, and hell if Jack knew how the little critter made it down the stone-wall, but he could tell that Jackie had. _Go find Kristoff in the mountains_ , he thought, and knew that Jackie would.

“If you're asking whether they know just how seriously I'm taking this Assignment,” Jack sat up, turning to her with a rather suggestive gaze, “the answer is _no_.”

Elsa didn't respond, and as it'd become rather the norm as of late, Jack had a hard time reading her expression. “Have you discovered any news with Anna?”

 _So many questions_. Elsa had always had an inquisitive mind, and he'd spent more than half her life answering to it, but he was beginning to feel a bit like he was under an interrogation. “Nothing serious,” he answered honestly, and could see immediately that Elsa was dissatisfied, if only from the pursing of her lips. “She, like—might still actually Believe in me, or she might just like the _idea_ of believing in me, but it's not the same. It's not all that uncommon for some people to cling onto those kinds of feelings,” or so Toothiana said. “I guess it's like—it's comforting, in a way. To talk as if such things existed, but to not _really_ truly feel their existence.” Which kind of sucked for him, but lent some strength to others. Go figure.

“How do you determine which one it is?”

 _You don't_.

“You test and see if they can see you or not,” Jack shrugged, growing uncomfortable. “You remove any cloaking or invisibility, and you let them see you for what you are. If they can.”

Elsa's next question was swallowed in a quick burst of clarity. She paused, then answered, “You don't intend to try.”

“It's not really that simple,” Jack bit out, hurt by _her_ hurt. “It's asking a _lot,_ Elsa. We're not supposed to—we're not even supposed to really keep tabs on people, even though everyone breaks that rule—because it's, like, some really painful stuff. And it's not helpful. Like—even if Anna _does_ still Believe in me, as opposed to just thinkingshe does, it doesn't really make a difference in how she perceives what happened, or how she'll rationalize anything else that might happen in the future—wintry stuff or magic or not. The only one who might lose or gain anything from the experience is _me_ , and I have a lot to lose.”

Elsa was silent, and after a long, tense moment, Jack sighed. “Elsa, look, I—I know that you _want_ her to, because...” Because of a lot of things. ( _Because she doesn't want her little sister to grow up without her, any more than he wanted_ Elsa _to---_ )“I get it. But I _promise_ you, she's protected, no matter what she believes in.”

Even if he had to take matters into his own hands.

“Hey,” he lowered his head down, trying to catch her eye. She was staring at a spot on the comforter, and her eyes had that glazed look to them again. T _he medicine was gone_ , thought Jack, _but would it ever truly be_ gone _?_ “Elsa?”

“How... how did you know?” she asked, and at first he didn't understand her.

“Know what?”

When she looked up at him it was hollow. Like he was some mystical being and the answer to all her prayers, as well as all her nightmares, who was strong and good and— _oh_.

“My Accident,” she whispered, in the same moment that it hit him. ( _He was losing her_ , he realized, in a far and distant way, and he had no idea how to fix it. He smothered the thought.) “How did you know?”

Jack's head jerked sharply, just once, and then his jaw slanted sideways as he tried to find the words. _I didn't_ , he wanted to say, but the truth was, “I got... this feeling.” The one that Bunny sometimes talked about. ( _The one he hadn't ever felt before, until then._ )

Elsa nodded slowly. A careful swallow, then, “Your powers?”

Jack hesitated. “I guess so,” he murmured.

( _New ones_ , _maybe, after all…  
Or maybe _ he _was just growing into them._  
He wasn’t sure Elsa would see a difference.)

It hadn’t been quite the same shock as finding out that he could shoot forth a devastating wall of sharp-shard deadly ice, or an entire avalanche with a snap of his fingers—or the warmth of creating something out of _love_ , pure and strong and senseless—but there had been stirrings in his chest, an _instinct_ in his gut, and goddammit if this is what North had been talking about the entire time whenever he'd said he felt something in his belly.

“I see,” Elsa murmured, with a tone that sent sparks into his stomach, sent his heart racing, his mind screaming, _what more do you want from me?_

“I'm sorry, Jack,” she whispered, perhaps at seeing the look on his face, and as she lowered herself back into the pillows, Jack started. He rearranged them around her, under her, avoiding her eyes. “I think I just need... some rest. For now.” She hesitated. “I'm not feeling like myself.”

“It's okay,” Jack murmured back, reassuring and understanding and _torn_. He lowered himself to the pillows next to her, and dragged his eyes to her face, and for a while they simply looked at one another, silent and mostly composed, until Elsa's eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep.

 _Eighteen-and-a-half,_ was the last thought that skittered through Jack's mind before he too fell asleep, lost in the determined Memory of lines and light within a face that was changing all the time.

. * * * .

 

 


	198. - ready for -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/12/15_. I'm alive! Thank you for your patience, everyone! I am completing the capstone courses of my graduate program, so the time for fanfiction writing is very minimal at present. (Remember when I started this story as a way to give myself writing breaks from grad school applications??) So much has happened in my life over the course of writing this story... What a lovely chapter in my life, you know?
> 
> The ~~crazy~~ good news is that this story will probably be finished by the end of this coming summer... even with another ten weeks of grad school left in my schedule! I can't believe we're finally approaching the final arcs. :') I'm thinking the final chapter will actually end up being around the 250th mark...? We still have a long way to go, but we're a lot closer to finishing than you might think. :'') 
> 
> **Beta'd** by the lovely **ALISON**! We've both been super busy, so it feels great to finally get a chapter out, lolololol. Two chapters for today!

 

. * * * .

 _\- ready for -_  
_( a fight_ ) 

. * * * . 

There were reasons Jack Frost didn't make promises.

And so he reminded himself, and reminded himself, and again and again as he carefully tucked his knees to his chest. In the midst of all his remembering, he lost track of himself for but a moment; now where the balls of his feet pressed firmly to a warm spread of shingles on the castle rooftop, there were suddenly tiny little trails of frost.

( _At best, the townspeople would look up to the distant towers and see nothing; at worst, they'd see flickers of sparkling light and think a bit of morning dew had caught the early rays of sunshine._

 _Either way, Jack's frost was too far away for Anna to see, and that was all that mattered._ )

She was positioned at the very edge, lying on her back over the easy slope and dangling her feet over the gutter that overlooked the gardens. She didn't seem at all concerned about someone finding her, or ushering her down, or _falling_ down. Jack had never heard of Anna having a fear of heights. On the contrary.

Anna had brought a book with her, but it seemed forgotten. He could tell it was some adventurous tale by the look of the cover, though it wasn't any title he recognized. (Not any tale of _his—_ that one was on loan to Burgess, for the time being; Jack reminded himself there was no point in disappointment.)

And so he watched Anna watch the world float by on a bright, sunshine-y day in the late bloom of May, and distantly wondered at the desperate way he was trying to hold his heart together. _Things could be better_ , he couldn't help but think, as she stared at cloud-shapes and passing ships, humming bright melodies to no one but herself.

. * * * .

Elsa might not have understand his reasons completely, but she understood enough; the only thing worse than wondering whether or not Anna truly Believed in him would be finding out she _didn't_ , and realizing that he'd only brought it on himself.

Some things were just too painful.

Some things were better left unknown.

. * * * .

As soon as Anna left the rooftop, adventure book in hand, she sought her parents in the parlor. Only the Queen was present, but Anna wasn't deterred; the coming month was to offer her the first true opportunity to demonstrate her sense of responsibility, and she intended to make her parents proud. ( _“Really, though—how are we supposed to finish all these preparations in_ four _weeks?!”_ )

Her introductory ball was a little less than a month away, and her parents would be leaving in half as much time. Most of the preparations had already been taken care of, but Anna delightedly grasped at the chance to oversee a few minor transactions that her parents had already begun. She'd be writing to a few diplomats on her own as well—nothing serious, just a few salutations and well-wishes, but it was enough to send her singing through the halls.

Seven or twelve times a day, Anna made sure to mention to her mother to bring back stories as usual. (“ _Mother, please, I_ need _you to scope out the nice, young gentlemen, okay?“_ and they laughed.)

Jack watched with heavy shoulders as the Queen smiled her tired eyes and put on a performance that was as impressive as it was tragic. _All for Anna's sake_ , thought Jack, but then, _maybe even Elsa's?_ All these gentle smiles and calming words and haunting secrets? For _Elsa?_ It was a challenging thought. And yet...

Putting on a brave face when everything was starting to crumble—day after day after day?

( _Jackson Overland_ had learned bravery through sacrificing crusts of bread to share when the harvest wouldn't yield; through making his mother smile and making his sister laugh, even through their tears; through quick-thinking over thin ice and comforting smiles and _it's gonna be okay_.

Jack Frost learned bravery through death and rebirth, death and rebirth— _his own, and then a golden friend's_ —and through gains and losses all over again. Bravery was loving every new child who Believed, while knowing that one day they would not; it was watching seven-year-old Elsa sob herself awake from a nightmare so strong that its own sand twisted itself black; it was arriving every day to Arendelle with a laugh and a grin, never knowing for _years_ if that morning would be the day Elsa no longer saw him, no longer remembered him, no longer _Believed_ ; bravery was withholding every thought, every memory of every fantasy of pressing his lips to hers, of holding back every urge to touch or comfort or express how much it burned to watch her dance in the arms of another, how much it _hurt_ ; bravery was holding in all of the pain and suffering and _ice_ when Elsa could not, of taking it all in and keeping it close to his heart, if only to ease the burden a mere fraction. Bravery was _secrets_ and _trust_ and pushing forward, _staying strong_ , even when it could all end in disaster.)

Jack decided that maybe the Queen was entitled to her means of bravery. Perhaps, in some ways, he wasn't all that different. 

( _Perhaps the King and Queen_  
_weren't the only ones_  
_who'd taught Elsa the art of  
__pretending._ )

. * * * . 

As if by some cruel twist of fate, everything was only now falling into place, like broken pieces of a puzzle coming together only after Jack had forgotten what the final image was suppose to look like. Elsa had seen her parents more times in the last week alone than she had in all the preceding month. And Elsa, who was slowly returning to her old self, who was finally coming into a state of mind and a position to stand up for herself, still couldn't seem to find her footing most days. It was like she'd fought her way through a deep sleep— _kicking and pinching and screaming herself awake_ —only to find herself halfway through the midst of battle. Only to realize through her haze of awareness that she was losing the war.

Jack tried to take comfort in the most recent argument, which showed signs of Elsa growing stronger. Her parents, now present for daily breakfast tea in her rooms ( _long before Anna awoke_ ), presented their misgivings about making the voyage to the Southern Kingdoms so soon.( _“The departure is set for only a fortnight,”_ they claimed, “ _There is still time to make alternative arrangements._ ”) It was the first true spark of fury he'd seen flashing in Elsa's eyes in weeks, and it gave him hope.

( _“Impossible!”_ )

They'd already missed too many opportunities, she argued, and they were going to be expected to attend; another regretful decline, especially with such short notice—the damage could be irrevocable.

And, for the first time in as long as Jack could remember, they listened.

That gave Jack hope, too.

. * * * . 

“It's a shame that Anna won't be joining them,” Elsa whispered later that night, re-pinning her hair in place. It'd been some time since he'd seen her with only a simple braid, and the surprise of seeing it draped over her shoulder, no matter how briefly, was making it a little hard to think.

“If only her introduction were a bit sooner,” she continued. “Or the wedding and the Summit a bit later.”

Of course. Without a formal introduction, it wouldn't be proper for Anna to attend. (The King and Queen had expressed no _misgivings_ about Anna staying behind.

Elsa would not attempt to see her prematurely, again.) 

And then Elsa admitted, with all the prim reluctance of a prisoner-princess forced to walk the plank, that she would be sorry to see her parents go. Jack was surprised, but also not. “Why didn't you just ask them to stay?”

Elsa smiled. It tore his stomach to shreds.

“If only it were that simple.”

. * * * .

 _We have to keep moving forward._ It was a truth that Elsa clung to, and Jack was not eager to shake it loose. Elsa was absolutely adamant that her parents should right the wrongs of all their silence for so many years. (“ _We cannot keep waiting until I am_ better. _What does that even mean? Perhaps I will always be_ recovering _, as they put it. There is no use in waiting.”_ )

But later that week, when she started talking about _I have to stay strong_ and _it's what's best for the kingdom_ and _they'll never leave if they suspect a thing, I'll have to put on a brave face the whole way up until they step off the docks—_

“Hey,” Jack interrupted, uneasy laughter slipping through his shaky exhale. He was leaning over her lap on her bed, and her face was in his hands. “Come on. I think you're missing the point here,” he smiled, gently pressing his forehead to hers. “Two whole weeks they'll be gone.” With a deliberate, daring tilt of his head, his voice trailed off against the softness of her mouth, “No... interruptions...”

He pulled the laughter from her in small increments, in little kisses and tiny nips, against each playful shove of her gloved hands. He drew her back out of her shadows with little reminders and mouthy reassurances, and clever fingers, and whispered strings of _I'll be here, the whole time, almost._

“What about—” she managed, trying to focus between long, lingering kisses. “The children?”

“They'll be fine,” Jack reassured her, quick and assured, pressing a new kiss to her chin. Her cheek. Her eyelids. “I've got—the Squad now. The trio. The team?” He smirked. “I haven't—picked out—a name for us yet.”

“But—what about—Jamie?”

“He's—picking things up. Slowly. Maybe—in a month or two, he might... You know.”

“I still don't—understand. Because you have Helpers—now—you suddenly have so much—less to do? Jack, _enough_.”

“Never,” he laughed, and sealed it with a kiss.

Jack eventually explained that he wasn't _slacking_ off, even if it might look it. Not in the slightest. He was actually working really hard... maybe even harder than usual. It was more than a little exhausting, actually, having this new Trio, because every so often he'd get a sudden little wave of information and memories from one of his Helpers, constantly being filled every so often with more information and sensations that were at once _his_ and _not his_ —sort of like how it worked for Tooth’s fairies? He tried to tell her how it'd just be too much for him to try to do everything all at once, to be out in the field and receiving magical memories while making magic of his own, that it was so much easier to learn how to manage it and take things as they came while enjoying the simple familiarity of her room—

“Do you not want me here so much?” Jack blurted suddenly, alarmed at the very realness of its possibility. Maybe she could use the rest. The peace and quiet.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she answered, and even before she finished, he could sense the _but_. “I just... I feel...”

“What?” Jack demanded, eyes wide and breathless.

Elsa's mouth quirked, and the fondness in her eyes sent a lump swimming to his throat. “Don't look at me like that,” she scolded, with just the tiniest wisp of incredulous laughter. “I just...”

Absolutely tired of waiting already, Jack surged forward to press a kiss to the side of her mouth, like he could draw the words out himself. Feeling silly all of a sudden, he stilled, resting his lips against soft, chilled skin. “Tell me.”

“Jack,” Elsa began, wrenching something deep within his gut. “When I told you that my world was narrowing, I didn't want for _yours_ to, either.”

Stunned, Jack leaned back, resting his weight onto his heels. He could feel himself sinking into the mattress.

“I'm worried that you're spending too much time here in Arendelle,” she barreled on, with a firmness that Jack had _missed_ , but— “I recognize that... my _Accident_ has warranted a bit more attention—”

“You _deserve_ attention,” Jack spit out, unwavering even as Elsa heaved a futile, exasperated sigh.

“You told me that the winters are very mild this year,” she reminded him, and there was a clarity in her eyes that was making it hard for Jack to focus. When was the last time they'd had a conversation like this? When was the last time she was able to look at him this way, with any sort of fire at all? “There haven't been nearly as many snow days—”

“That's what my team is for,” Jack pointed out, _again_ , and honestly, why was this so hard to understand? “To help me keep on top of everything, so I don't have to do all the work myself.”

Elsa merely looked at him, lips parted with incredulity. Jack didn't like it, particularly, even if he’d missed it.

“What?” Jack snapped, growing defensive. “Is it so hard to believe that I can actually act responsible once in awhile? That I can actually get some work done _and_ have time to enjoy myself?”

“Jack...” Elsa whispered, eyes growing sad. “When did you start seeing this as _work_?”

He'd been harboring another argument, ready for a fight; the words slipped down the back of his tongue, and drowned.

“What?” he asked, dazed.

For a long minute, Elsa merely looked at him; Jack stared back, uncertain. At length, Elsa released another sigh. She clutched the covers beneath her gloved fingers.

“Your Helpers are wonderful,” Elsa softly began. “They really, truly are. They're magnificent, and you are right to be so very proud of them... but they cannot replace you. Receiving a taste of frost magic from a Helper is not the same as having truly received a visit from _you_. Is it?”

Jack's mouth went very, very dry. “No,” he swallowed.

Elsa turned her eyes away, staring at the lines of thread beside her. “You used to tell me how the other Guardians had forgotten what it meant to see the Light of a child's eyes. That they'd gotten so involved in their service, they'd forgotten whom it was they served. Do you remember that, Jack?”

He remembered the problem, even if he didn't remember telling her. “I'm... not like that.”

Elsa peered up at him, mouth quirking. “Are you certain?”

“I'm _not_ ,” Jack insisted, growing heated. He wanted to get rid of that strange and knowing look in her eye, but no other arguments sprang forth from his lips.

Her gaze shifted, but not in the direction he'd been hoping. If anything, the look in her eyes grew deeper, more poignant. “Is it really so hard to recognize the difference?” she asked quietly. Jack hinged his jaw, feeling his irritation grow, until, “You used to play,” and it burst.

“I still _play_ ,” Jack bit out, deeply affronted. Should he remind her that _she_ was the one who no longer found any interest in his games? Or—considering the world was in _danger_ and all, should he mention that messing around with a couple of snowballs wasn't really at the forefront of his mind? That there was a lot going on? Didn't she appreciate any of this? Jack frowned, ignoring the first twinges of betrayal lining his stomach. _I'm just trying to protect you._

Elsa said nothing, which didn't help. He was too aggravated to put his words together, and Elsa looked like she was thinking hard. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear what she planned to say next. He didn't really have an option.

“I just worry that you may eventually lose sight of what being a Guardian is _supposed_ to be.” Jack couldn't hold back a scoff.

“Elsa,” he huffed. One sharp hand carded through his hair and he eventually sat back, settling himself more deeply into the mattress. There was a gap between them, and Jack tried to let the space put his words in order. His head felt fuzzy, and his lagging breaths kept interrupting his thoughts, but Elsa was listening, and there was stuff that needed to be said. “I hear what you're saying, all right? I get it. But there's more to being a Guardian than just... you know. Kicking up snow fights—”

“Of course there is,” Elsa butted in. He wasn't alone in his annoyance now, apparently. “I'm not saying what you're doing now is not important. I'm not saying that your sole sense of the world should revert back to _snowballs and fun times_ , without any of the family or the _purpose_ —”

“Just that I'm focusing on all the wrong priorities,” Jack marveled coldly, gnawing on his tongue. “Including the ones that concern you.”

Elsa stared back, unblinking.

“I'm afraid you'll lose your sense of self,” she whispered. “You've already started to, even if you haven't noticed.”

Was she being serious? _Do you even know me at all?_

“It scares me that you've been attending your duties for the sake of _duty_ ,” Elsa admitted, and as her breath hissed over her words, Jack felt his own breath skip and catch over his ribs. His teeth. “You used to make magic merely for the sake of Fun.”

“Well, so did you,” Jack bit out. His eyes widened. “Shit. Elsa. Sorry, I... I didn’t. Shit.”

Elsa rocked back in her seat, then forward, leaning very casually over her delicately-crossed ankles, elbows hooked into the insides of her knees, over her gently-crossed legs. It was an unusual pose for her. Probably terrible for her posture. It sort of looked the way he liked to sit, only stiff and uncomfortable and—

“You're spending an awful lot of time here, is what I'm saying,” said Elsa, with finality. “You've been neglecting your sense of Fun. As a Guardian, yes... but also for yourself.”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. There was a familiar bubble of discomfort rising in his stomach, the one that usually burned and gnawed at his conscience. The one that usually meant Elsa was right, and he didn't want to admit it.

“That wasn’t a sexual entendre, in case you’re wondering.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and his gaping mouth suddenly curved, eventually barked with shocked laughter. A familiar, not-unpleasant heat settled in his belly.

“You know…” Jack slowly began, tonguing one of his back molars. (He hoped she could hear everything he _wasn't_ saying, because he really didn't feel like saying it.) He crawled closer, for effect. “You're taking this Fun business awfully seriously.”

Slowly, Elsa offered a smile; small and strained, but genuine.

“I had a pretty decent teacher.”

“… _decent?_ ”

. * * * .

That evening, Jack _did_ have a great deal of Fun...  
if only just to prove a point.

. * * * .

 


	199. - ever be -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/12/15_. ~~Can you feel what's coming?~~ ~~Are you sure?~~
> 
> **BETA'd by **ALISON.****

 

. * * * .

_\- ever be -_

. * * * .

 

(“ _It won’t be like this forever. You know that, right?”_

“ _It feels like it,” Elsa had murmured, not looking at him._ “ _It feels like this is all I do. Like this is who I’ll ever be.”_

“ _Look… You may not feel fine right now, and that’s okay. But you’re gonna be, Elsa.”_

“ _I… I was fine before, I think. I always knew how much worse it could be,  
_ _but even then, I don’t think I fully… appreciated…”_

“ _It will be better than before,” Jack had assured her. “I can feel it. Things are going to change,  
_ _maybe only a little bit at a time, real slow, and then suddenly you’ll  
_ _look up one day and notice that something is different. Okay?  
_ _Whether it's two weeks or two years from now,  
_ _you'll be stronger than ever before._ _Believe me.  
_ _And I’ll be right here, too, like always.”_

“ _Jack,” she'd whispered, “I think you think too much of me.”_ )

  
. * * * .

The lamplight of Jamie’s childhood bedroom had always had a golden tint to it, something soft and soothing and warm. The high-efficiency, eco-friendly, lifetime-warranty, sustainable bulbs that Jamie was so into these days were too bright for Jack’s tastes, harsh and luminous and unnatural. The glow was pale, almost white, tinted like the moon but glaring like the sun. The new lamp—an industrious-looking thing, sharp and silver and sleek—seemed out of place on the old, rickety desk… until you looked up and saw the rest of the room, and realized that it actually fit right into Jamie’s new and developing theme of “minimalist-outdoor-adventurer-anthropologist-meets-Mad-Scientist-librarian.” Jack amused himself for a while by thinking about how amusing it’d be to see that mouthful titled on the cover of some interior design magazine. (Wondered, distantly, if _maybe Elsa would like that sort of thing_?)

Jack’s legs were sprawled out over the messy spread of Jamie’s wrinkled-up comforter, dark navy blue and smelling of fresh cotton, per usual. Jamie was bundled up in a fleece pull-over, the zipper yanked up all the way to his chin, but Jamie seemed to think nothing of the abnormal chill on a spring night. Jack huffed.

The flicking of pages back and forth—so noisy in the otherwise silence of such fierce, unrelenting concentration—left Jack with a thick, sated feeling of quiet, of something close to relaxation, but not quite kind enough to ease the stiffness in his muscles. Jack’s head was heavy, and his staff was a familiar weight over the open spread of his lap. His muscles were tight, and his eyelids kept sliding down, and by all accounts Jack _could_ have let himself fall asleep, even if only for a little bit, but the bright light of the lamp kept Jack from dozing.

An hour later, and Jack’s eyes flickered open to the cutting sound of Jamie’s sigh. The light was glaring, but Jack blinked through it, watching with dry, itchy eyes as Jamie leaned back in his chair and sagged with frustration, both hands wiping up and down over his face. Jack watched with groggy perseverance as Jamie slumped into his seat with such determination that he actually fell out of his chair and onto the floor. The rolling chair skidded off behind him.

The typewriter sat on a shelf near the window.

Feeling fond, Jack eyed the lethargic puddle that was Jamie on the floor, and cocked his head to the side. “You gonna just stay there?”

Almost as if he’d sensed the wake of sarcasm from the very fabric of the universe itself, Jamie groaned into the carpet.

Jack Frost shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

And so he did, at least for another five minutes or so. Jack kept watch of the alarm clock by Jamie’s old bed, the same one that had sent the family greyhound into a frenzy two decades before. _Still holding onto old things,_ thought Jack wryly, and marveled at the presence of warmth in his thoughts where there was usually bitterness.

Eventually, though, the night wore on and Jack wore down. He’d figured he would give Elsa a bit more space tonight—some extra time to write in her journal, and think—but watching Jamie sit in an invisible pool of his growing frustration was leaving an uncomfortable, unnameable pit in Jack’s stomach. Especially since Jamie’s frustration was about _him_.

Or the _Guardians_ , more generally, but Jack took credit where credit was due.

Jamie punctuated Jack’s conflicting thoughts with another disgruntled grunt, then rolled onto his side. _I should probably go_ , thought Jack, as he watched Jamie’s gaze flicker over the army of dust bunnies that was probably hiding under the bed. _This isn’t very productive_. Jack didn’t dwell on it, but the fact of the matter was that watching Jamie just sit around and brood about not being to find a solution was making it very easy for him to brood, too.

“All right, then,” Jack announced, tilting his head further back against the wall, as if that would prepare him for the inevitable journey ahead. “I’m gonna go.”

“It’s not my fault, you know.”

For a long moment, Jack merely sat, trapped in captivated stillness, and listened to the indecipherable silence that came after feeling such intense uncertainty, hope, and resignation all in a single moment. He was speechless, and already rather exhausted.

“I mean you’re a _typewriter_. I know you can type,” Jamie rambled on, laying his flattened cheek against the pillow of his arm, then twisting onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “The least you could do is write a full sentence, y’know? Or use punctuation.”

Jack chuffed a laugh, knocking his tilted head back against the wall. His fingers felt restless all of a sudden, so he twirled the staff back and forth in his hand.

“Can’t you, like, I don’t know. Give me a sign or something?” Jamie seemed to hesitate, while Jack frowned. “Okay. So, yeah, maybe I already got a little one, but I mean, like… _more_ of a sign?”

“No,” Jack answered, with surprising strength—especially since he hadn’t intended to speak at all. The air was awkward with his disappointment, and his amusement, and all of the other confusing things he was feeling. His fingers twitched. With a sigh, he added, “Not today.”

“Because this is sort of unfair, you know,” Jamie went on, arguing with the ceiling. (Jack generously let himself notice the irony that, technically, that’s what he was arguing at, too.) “How am I even supposed to know where to start? Like—‘ _MAN. IN. MOON.’_ That’s helpful. There’s only about thirty thousand recorded legends about the moon, so like. That’s great.”

“Still an optimist, I see.”

“And what’s with the ‘told you’? Is that like a _warning_ ‘told you’? As in— _you should have listened when you had the chance, get out, run now!”_

“Where is this moon-voice inspiration coming from?” Jack teased, not unkindly. “Your impression sounds like a moose.”

“Or, you know, is it one of those ‘told you so’s where you’re like, _I’m not gonna repeat myself_ , _idiot, take notes next time_ , even though the sign sort of _was_ a note, wait, does that make sense?”

“Does anything?”

“I’m going insane,” Jamie sighed, suddenly very dejected and tired and crestfallen, and looking a lot younger than he really was. Jack stared down, and realized—truly, inescapably, and insurmountably, with harsher clarity than he’d ever experienced before, in all of the years that he’d felt it—that he missed him. Missed Jamie.

His throat was suddenly very thick when he swallowed.

“Look,” Jack started, his voice quiet and soft, even as he held firm. “I’m not gonna give you a sign every time you ask, just because you ask. You gotta start doing some of the work here too—” _kid_ , he thought, he remembered, but didn’t say; something pricked at his eyes. Jack cleared his throat, noisily. “Belief isn’t supposed to be conditional.”

For a while, they only sat in silence; Jamie with his thoughts and Jack with his. Jack should have left a while ago.

The resounding sound of a palm smacking into sweaty forehead shocked through Jack’s system, very nearly shooting spikes of frost into the opposite walls from the pads of his skittering fingertips. _Shit_. That could have led to so much trouble—and after all that jazz about not giving Jamie any magical shortcut-displays or signs, either. _Damn_.

“Dammit,” Jamie swore beneath his breath, but Jack recognized that look of resignation all too well. “They’re really not gonna be a happy about another extension on my leave.”

And they weren’t, but they got over it.

(Jamie went back to the lab for a few days to make a few arrangements, and then he packed up a few other essentials and flew right back to Burgess for a slightly more extended Leave of Absence. He arrived home to find that his lifetime-guaranteed light bulb had suspiciously blown out, and had been replaced in the meantime with one of his mom’s newer, still compatible bulbs, the ones with the soft, hazy light with that distinctly old-school yellow tinge.

“Huh,” Jamie pondered, considering the change in the room with something like bewildered recognition, then went back about his business, and Jack went back to smirking at the windowsill.)

. * * * .

( _“You know what I think about sometimes?” murmured Elsa, while he'd stroked her hair  
_ _and she lay still against his chest, nestled against the chill of his hoodie as they'd sprawled at the window,  
_ _watching the sky and the stars and wishing that the nights lasted longer, that the air was colder, that the wind was stronger, faster, wiser—_

“ _I wish I'd hugged them more, when I had the chance.”_ )

. * * * .


	200. - make it -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/19/15_. so here’s the deal. last saturday was a magical, magnificent drop of sunshine in an otherwise overloaded coursework schedule, which means that i spent the majority of my day writing fanfiction instead of having to do grown-up grad school stuff. it was lovely.
> 
> which means that i was able to complete 8 new chapters! 13000+ words in total, in about 44 pages of my crazy formatting!! 
> 
> i will be posting at least one a day over the next week until all of them are done, and then i simply don’t think i will have the time to post any more until after i finish my program. (9 weeks and counting!!!!) i can see the light at the end of the graduate tunnel, and i am going to need to zoom full-speed ahead without worrying about my 300k+ words WIP. ;_______; so after this wild round of updates, it will be a while before there are any others.
> 
>  ~~I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED THOUGH??? WE ARE ALMOST DONE???!?!?~~ oh, also, happy 200th chapter...
> 
>  **BETA'D** by the beautiful **ALISON** and **ABIGAIL**.
> 
>  
> 
>  **TW** in end notes.

 

. * * * .

_\- make it -_

_(up to you)_

. * * * .

 

Four days before the departure of the King and Queen, Jack experienced a moment of true disappointment. After subtly (and not so subtly) encouraging Elsa to remove her gloves— _just for a little while, just around him_ —he was firmly, albeit gently, denied.

It wasn’t only the physical disappointment (he spent a lot of time these days thinking back to the night of her introductory ball, of her grasping onto his hands for the first time, _holding_ them), but also the implication that she didn’t trust him to help her control it.

 _It wasn’t that_ , she’d argued. It was that she didn’t trust _herself_.

(He wasn’t even going to mention the whole new thing about her powers having the potential to injure him, either. He was just… gonna pass over that, for a while.)

So Jack looked at her with eyes that said, _Same difference_.

The peculiar shade of apology and curiosity on her face was as damaging as it was lovely. It hurt to look at her, with all of her grace ( _her experience_ ), her wisdom ( _her pain_ ), and her beauty, everything, and know that he was alone in the knowledge of who she really was.

It hurt to know that, for all the ground he’d gained (for all the secrets he’d earned, for all the trust he’d built), there were still moments in which he could feel the misstep of unexpected walls.

( _Doors,_ whispered a voice, but he shut it out.)

( _But really—  
__He might have been the one to break them down,  
__But if no one else was even allowed to see them,  
__did it really count?_ )

Elsa was watching his face with rapt attention, and he hadn’t even noticed. He wondered what she’d seen.

“You know,” she began quietly, voice steady and leading. “My hands are hardly the most valuable part of me.”

Jack stared at her, bewildered. “Do you think I was implying that they were? Because there is more to you than just—“

“I’ve always been so much more fond of other means of expression,” she interrupted him, abruptly changing the conversation with a decidedly regal air. “Communication can be so misleading, especially with words.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. He was thoroughly lost. “Uh… what? But you love words.”

“Yes,” Elsa hummed. “I love the written and spoken word, languages and texts and scrolls, but I’m beginning to think that interpretation, though lovely, can be such an unreliable phenomenon. Don’t you?”

“…Yes?”

“I’ve often been most fond of expressing myself through my hands,” Elsa continued, following a line of thought that only she understood. As she spoke, she slid her gloved fingers over his knees… and up. Jack swallowed. “But it appears that we are at an impasse… for you are growing tired of my gloves, and I have no intentions of removing them.”

Her hands were heavy on his upper thighs. This wasn’t easy. “Elsa, I’m not trying to—“

“The truth is,” Elsa admitted, voice gone hushed, “that I rather prefer my voice.”

Jack felt a shock of surprise flip his stomach sideways. When it subsided, Jack title this head to stare at her. Cautiously, Jack asked, “Your… voice?”

“Mm,” Elsa flicked her eyes away, down to the hands that had found the muscles at his hips. “This isn’t the first time my magic has been lost to me,” she reminded him, as a jolt of pure unhappiness rocked his spine, “and there are other ways that I console myself when my hands are of no use to me. I use my voice.”

Jack’s throat had gone very dry. “To sing,” he added, tentatively. Hopefully.

The first curve of a smile took hold of Elsa’s lips, but it stopped too soon; what was left was a half-smirk that looked foreign on her features, something sensual and mysterious in a way Jack had never seen before. It was having an effect on him, even as he tried to sort through his hope and excitement.

“Yes,” she acquiesced, dismissively, like a fox flitting around its prey. Was Elsa being… coy? His stomach was already in shreds enough as it was. “Occasionally.”

“Elsa,” Jack cautioned, “Don’t get my hopes up.”

The curl of her lips returned, playfully devious, and Jack throbbed, his pelvis still framed by her palms. She leaned forward, into his space, and Jack breathed her in. “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his lips, and she sounded sincere, brushing softness against his, trailing the firm pads of her hands decidedly _up_. “But I’m afraid I’m not very much in the mood to sing.”

Well, to be honest, neither was Jack, at the moment.

“But I may have something that’s just as well,” Elsa shushed against him, tilting away, where Jack mindlessly followed, parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes.

After a moment of unanswered waiting, Jack fluttered open his eyes. He took a moment to drink in her face, to compose himself enough for words, and suspiciously said, “You’re not gonna make me sing, are you?”

A brief flicker of amusement passed through her gaze. Something devious. Mischievous. “Could I?”

Of course.

“No.”

Elsa’s smile tugged, looking rather powerful, and she dipped downward, stopping only a breath away from his.

“No,” she breathed against him, soft and silent and chilling, “I was actually going to suggest my mouth. I’ve always been rather fond of it.”

Jack couldn’t think. “Oh,” said he. “I’m rather fond of it, too.”

Elsa’s fingers had found the bones of his hips, the insides of his thighs; Jack’s head lolled briefly backwards, and he struggled to raise it back. He overshot, and his chin bumped the collar of his hoodie. And stayed there.

Which gave Elsa the perfect opportunity to slide her cheek over his, and settle her lips at his ear. “If it’s bare skin you’d like,” she whispered. “Does it have to be mine?”

Jack didn’t have the words.

(Which apparently weren’t that important, anyway.)

. * * * .

The sun was beginning to set, and there Jack was, long limbs spread comfortably over the expanse of Elsa’s thick quilts. Somehow, they’d found themselves upside down, with her loosened bun splaying over the foot of the bed. He liked this better, anyhow. It was much easier to see Elsa’s face when there wasn’t a thick pillow always getting in the way.

She was barefoot, too, which was a small victory that Jack wouldn’t take for granted. (Not like he had with everything else. Not like he’d gotten used to the sight of her collarbones, her wrists, her shoulders, her legs, her neck, _her hands_.) Jack had bravely foregone his sweatshirt and tunic and lay bare-chested alongside all of Elsa’s many layers. (The sweatshirt, she’d folded and set upon a chair an hour ago; the tunic, they decided, should be left rebelliously rumpled upon the floor.) Jack knew, with almost impossible uncertainty, that Elsa (not-so-)secretly liked the sight of him in his old tunic; it was a lot easier to imagine themselves both as ordinary humans.

Jack felt fuzzy with contentment, almost giddy with the slip-slide of bare toes brushing against one another in the quiet hush of twilight. Now that her parents were always checking in on her, they were constantly at risk of being interrupted. (As ever, Jack had to be careful with his magic too, lest her parents think that it's _hers._ ) He couldn’t wait for them to leave.

“Sometimes I wish,” Elsa whispered, with the golden glow of sunset upon her face, “Sometimes I think about it… about how much _I’d_ like to leave.”

 _To go find Henrik?_ he considered joking, but didn’t. Placed a thumb to her lip instead, sweeping across the bow in slow, smooth strokes.

“Go somewhere where no one will know about me,” Elsa went on, so used to Jack’s aimless touches that her lips moved gently, like he might be able to capture each word on the pad of his thumb. “I don’t know if I could stand to be so alone, but I think it’d get easier. I think I could do it.”

 _You could_ … _but why should you have to?_ “That might be nice,” Jack agreed.

“Who knows? Maybe I could learn to control my magic so well I could forget I even had it,” Elsa’s soft huff chilled Jack’s skin, but it was the rest of him that filled with ice. “And if that worked well enough, then maybe I could forget about the rest of it, too. Except for Anna.”

For a long moment, Jack did and said nothing. The two of them lay beside one another in the dimming light, and listened to the calm.

“I had to fight really hard to get my Memories back,” said Jack at length, and let it sink into the stillness.

In the end, Elsa’s response was only to slide one glove up the planes of his stomach and chest, and to kiss him deeply—his mouth, his neck, his chest, his hips—until he’d forgotten all about the conversation, himself.

. * * * .

( _“After my introduction, I’ll be free to socialize with whoever I want! Huh.  
__I wonder if I’ll find a husband right away,” Anna wondered aloud, for all the gallery portraits to hear.  
_ “ _Maybe I’ll need to go to a couple of parties first? I mean, like—I’d hate to miss out on all the fun by finding  
__a fiancé_ right _away_! _Getting engaged right after coming into society? I mean—is that even wise?  
__But… I suppose, if it’s the right person…  
__If it’s true love…  
__I think I could do it.”_

“ _Oh!” she added, as an afterthought. “I guess some people might not like it  
__when the younger sister gets married before the older one?  
__But I don't think people will really care about that with me.  
__I don’t think I care about it, in any case._

 _And Elsa sure won't.  
_ _She's probably too busy hiding in her room all day  
_ _to notice, and by the time she does, it’ll be too late.  
_ _Her loss, right?_

 _You know, I don't think she actually wanted to marry that Henrik guy.  
__Nothing is ever_ really _good enough for Elsa.  
__She probably doesn't want to get married at all._ ”)

. * * * .

Hypothetically speaking, if Jamie were to remember Jack again—

Jamie was in some ways 'older' than him.

This realization hit Jack as he was loitering at his windowsill one day, watching him chat animatedly on the phone with Pippa. As he hands flew and cut through the air with wild gesticulations, Jack began to wonder: What would Jamie think?

(How would Jamie remember him? Would he have pictured Jack taller? What would it mean, that Jamie was just the tiniest half-inch taller than him now?) Jack was suddenly desperate to know.

The two of them were talking about Monty’s gradual progress, and how his support group was helping. As Jack listened in, he thought of Monty and Memories and Toothiana’s teachings, in where she’d once said that adults were technically _capable_ of recalling their happy Memories on their own, but that it was a skill that required much practice. Monty was working very hard to strengthen this muscle, so to speak, and before Jack really thought about it, he decided that _hey_ , at least there was one sort of positive silver-lining thing that came out of that disaster.

Jack frowned. He hadn't thought of Pitch in a while. He'd gotten distracted. It’d been so quiet lately that he hadn’t let him into the forefront of his mind.

Sort of like he'd forgotten about him, almost.

. * * * .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW:** Reminder that this story is rated M! Sexual themes may apply throughout the entirety of the story, but this scene in particular may have mentions, descriptions, or instances of sexual content. Read with caution!


	201. - hadn't died -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/19/15_. I am getting impatient, let's see if I can actually manage to spread these updates out a bit or if I'm just gonna end up posting them all today. :X
> 
>  **BETA'D** by the lovelies, **ALISON** and **ABBY**.

 

. * * * .

_\- hadn’t died -_

. * * * .

 

“My Memories,” Jack announced the next morning, striding into the Golden Tooth Palace without so much as a hello. “I wanna know why I lost them.”

Toothiana looked up from her work, harried but abruptly focused, and furrowed her beautiful brows. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Jack strode forward, ignoring the flutter of tiny fairies that rushed forward in a flurry of concern and alarm. “I wanna talk to the big guy.”

Tooth frowned. “North?”

“No. The bigger guy.”

“... _Manny_?”

“He owes me one,” Jack muttered darkly, glancing at Tooth’s golden scroll. Hundreds of thousands of tiny Lights flickered from the map within.

“Jack.... he wouldn’t know any better than I what happened to your Memories—and I’m sorry, but I’ve already told you everything that I can.” Toothiana held his stony gaze for only a few moments, then turned to the array of maps. “We can look into it again, but… I’m not sure what else I could—”

“Did the Moon take them from me?” Jack blurted.

Tooth darted a surprised stare his way. “What do you mean?”

“Did the Moon take them from me?” Jack repeated, voice frightfully tight. “When I died and was—reborn? Made into _this_ , or whatever?”

“Oh... _Jack_ —” Tooth's face was torn between sadness and amusement and pity, and Jack didn't particularly like the feelings it evoked. Naivete. Ignorance. The fun little reminder that he was, in many ways, still the youngest of them all. “The key to your becoming a Guardian was _remembering_ what you've done... He’d always intended for you to become one of us. Why put such obstacles in your way?” She must have seen how he was feeling on his face, because she immediately backpedaled. “Jack, _listen_ —Manny wouldn’t do this to you! Not when there was so much at stake. Although you transformed a century or two before we went up against Pitch again—”

“Three.”

“Okay, yes, _three_ centuries after your transformation—Manny still obviously had hopes of calling upon you to someday fulfill your destiny as a Guardian. He wouldn't have taken the key away from you if you were already holding it.”

Jack frowned, and Toothiana's eyes narrowed.

“Why... do you ask?” she pried, floating the tiniest bit closer.

“Well... I’ve just… been wondering how I lost them,” Jack mused, biting his tongue. Some of his embittered hope had faded, and he felt the loss like the drowning of a fire. “Again.”

Toothiana frowned, and Jack only grew more agitated. ( _All these eternal questions._ ) Here he was, standing before Toothiana for the millionth time in how many years, asking the same damn things, hearing the same damn answers. She was the Guardian of _Memories—_ how could she not know what happened to _his_? ( _How could she have never realized—in all of three hundred years—that they had been missing?_ )

( _She was so careful with them now._

_Nowadays, there was only ever one reason why  
_ _Memories went missing;  
_ _nowadays, Tooth never not knew about it.)_

_(Too bad the same couldn't have been said for his.)_

( _And why  
_ _was that?_

he wondered.)

( _But of course,_ Jack remembered: by the time Jackson Overland had fallen through the ice, the Guardians had already moved on from him, hadn't they?

He hadn't died a _child_.)

“You're still worried that you... repressed them, yourself?” Toothiana ventured, well and truly thinking now, unknowing of the flare of bitterness that was rising and receding in the well of Jack’s heart. This was his family, he reminded himself, _but at what cost?_

Jack didn't say anything, at first. Toothiana’s suggestion of repression would certainly fit with his newest theory—the one that said he was just as detrimental to Elsa's mental health as her parents were; the one that said he'd taught her just as much about keeping secrets and smiling through the pain and _concealing_ just as much as anybody else had—but it didn't... feel right. It didn't feel like what _happened_. Like his Memories had been hidden, yes, but it hadn’t felt like _his_ doing, which was why Jack’s thoughts had turned to the possibilities of Manny. Who else would have the power to bury them so deeply that he hadn’t even known they exi—

Oh.

Jack's eyes snapped wide.

“ _Oh_ —! Oh— _fuck_!”

“What?” Toothiana snapped, wings frantic and fluttery. “What’s wrong!”

“They—they were _buried_!”

“By who? By Manny?”

“No—! No, it was—it was _him!_ ” Jack choked, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and heart racing still, “ _He_ did this!”

“Jack, you... you think that _Pitch_ —?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jack hissed, doubling over with split-certain shock. He ran both his hands through his hair, fingernails scraping over skull. “Fuck!”

“Jack, calm down! You don't know for sure what—”

“He—he _used_ me,” Jack was gasping. “From the _beginning_!”

“I’m calling North.”

“He tookthem,” Jack snarled, chest caving. His grip on his staff sent shockwaves of spiraling frost deep into the woodwork. “Shit, he was—he was planning this all along, wasn’t he? Maybe I was the first, like—like I was a _test_ subject. _Fuck!_ ”

“Jack—”

“Don't you get it?” Jack rounded, eyes flashing wild. “The bastard needed someone to test out a brand new magical theory—something to hold onto in case his black sand idea didn't work and— _there I was_ , dead as a doornail and fresh off the Moon’s newest recruitment list _—_ and he, he _knew_ that someday he might find an opportunity to use it against me, as _leverage_ , to lure me in and—god _damnit_!” Jack slammed a blast of ice into the floor, ricocheting all the way to the balcony and the clouds beyond. The tiny fairies behind him twittered with concern, but Toothiana had stopped trying to talk him down. Instead, she let him rage. “How the fuck did it take me this long to figure it out?”

“Jack,” said Toothiana, with a tone that surged dread into every fiber of his being.

Blindly, Jack heaved and heaved, like he was drowning, like he was trying to surface, looking for air.

( _Go_ , whispered a voice,  
gentle and faint, and urgent.)

“I'm not—I'm not _crazy_ ,” Jack rasped, staring her down hard. “Pitch _did_ this. He is always at _least_ a couple of steps ahead, even when he's running away.” His eyes blazed. “Tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me you think I could be right.”

Toothiana pursed her lips, long and thin and firm.

“I think you might be right.”

. * * * .

 


	202. - stolen them -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/19/15_.

 

. * * * .

_\- stolen them -_

. * * * .

 

(“ _How could we go so long  
_ _without having realized?” Tooth whispered._

“ _Because it don't make sense.”_

“ _Bunny, at_ least _consider it. The rest of us... we didn't lose our Memories  
_ _in our transformations. We—we thought the reason Jack had was because he’d... because—”_

“ _Because I died.  
_ _And I was the only one.  
_ _That's why.”_ )  
  


. * * *.  
  


So it was decided, or discovered perhaps, that at some point between the death of Jackson Overland and the birth of Jack Frost, Pitch Black had dug his filthy claws into his box of Memories.

( _Could Pitch have placed some sort of spell over the box, so Toothiana wouldn't notice the interference?  
_ _Could Jack truly have been the very first?  
_ _The test-run that started it all?_ )

Jack's Memories were heavily Guarded now. Pitch would never be able to find them.

( _But he'd_ ~~ _tainted_~~ ~~ _ruined_~~ _stolen them once._

 _Would he really need to touch them  
_ _to do it again?_ )

. * * * .

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

( _“I need you to write in this.”_

“ _I already do. Every day.”_

“ _Every day? Are you sure? Every single day?”_

“ _Yes... all the time. I've almost finished this one.  
_ _And then I'll start another.”_

“ _And you've hidden them? Locked them up,  
_ _so no one else can find them?”_

“ _Yes...” Elsa repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Jack, what is this about?”_

“ _What do you mean?”_

“ _What's wrong?”_

_Jack flipped the journal over in his hands, staring at its back cover. He was frowning._

“ _Jack.”_

“ _I just need you to trust me. Okay? Please. It's important.”_

“ _Jack,” Elsa insisted, “You're scaring me.”_ )  
  


. * * * .

 


	203. - good King -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/19/15_.

 

 . * * * .

_\- good King -_

. * * * .

.

.

.

.

 

( _“He is avoiding our line of sight.”_

“ _I’ll say,” Jack scoffed.  
_ “ _So he’s learned  
_ _from his mistakes, then?”_

“ _It is more,” said North, gravely.  
_ “ _He is waiting for something.”_ )

.

.

.

.

.

 

Jack checked the Vault twice every morning,  
and twice more in the afternoon.

He never went at night.

 

.

.

.

.

.

 

. * * * .

Two nights before her parents would set sail on their journey, Jack found her sleeping at the window again. Instead of carrying her to the bed, he chose to watch over her under the moonlight, brushing away the freshly-cut bangs and smoothing the crease between her brow. ( _He'd always told her that she'd never be able to hurt him with her magic, and she'd never believed him, not fully—_

 _Had he been wrong?_ )

(She was so worried that he was going to spend too much just watching her fail.  
But she didn't realize just how badly he was failing, himself.

How much he'd lose, if he ever lost her.)

Her journal was getting dangerously full.

( _If he'd ever bother to keep one,  
_ _what would have been in his?_ )

. * * * .

 

There were rumors, of course, of the overprotective King and the plans of the ball for his younger daughter.

The village, once worried that this ball would similarly amount to nothing, now had high hopes. Sure, her royal highness the Crown Princess was rumored to be the more beautiful of the two, and wiser, and of course would one day be _Queen_ —but the younger Princess had a voice that could sometimes be heard floating out from the castle gardens, so of _course_ she must be lovely, and _her_ party would no doubt end in a marriage proposal that would shine favorably upon the economy, and yes, it _is_ strange, isn't it, that the number of the merchants sent into the castle for business have been halved within the last month? What great news, honestly, it must mean they are cutting costs to lower the townspeople’s taxes, isn’t he _such a good_ _King!_

 

. * * * .

 

( _“_ Enough _, Jack.”_

“ _What? You calling me a liar?”_

“ _Of_ course _not.”_

“ _Then what? You don't trust me? You don't think I'm smart enough  
_ _to know what I'm talking about?”_

“ _Jack, you're being ridiculous.”_

“ _I'm not so sure I am. I'm telling you what I know  
_ _and what I've seen over the last however many years, and I'm telling you—”_

“ _Jack, caring about something and_ seeing _it is not the same as_ knowing _it!”_

“ _So, what... now you're like, saying that I don't know you?”_

“ _I'm saying that just because you care about something,  
_ _it doesn't mean you know what's best for it.”_

“ _Oh, wow, thanks. It's not like I didn't have the last ten or fifteen years  
_ _to learn that lesson from your father, or_ _anything.”_

“ _...”_

“ _Sorry.”_

“ _Jack... I appreciate what you are trying to do, but you have to understand—  
_ _when you tell me these things, when you sound so sure of yourself when you tell me that things  
_ _will get better, I_ can't _hear them the way you want me to. Okay?”_

“ _How is that okay? How?  
_ _You don't listen to anyone else. No one else sees what's going on, because you don't let them.  
_ _If I don't say these things to you, then who will? You deserve to have someone telling you  
_ _that things are gonna be okay, Elsa. And I'm not saying it'll be easy or quick, either!  
_ _I'm not gonna sit here and chant out mantras like your  
_ _parents will and expect it to do anything.”_

“ _You don't know everything, Jack.”_

“ _Like hell I ever said I did."_

“ _Maybe sometimes the solutions that we need are not the ones that we want.  
_ _Maybe sometimes it gets worse before it gets better, if it ever gets better at all.  
_ _Maybe that's just how it is.”_

“ _Oh, and like that's any better? Like you know everything, too?”_

“ _Can you perhaps just entertain the idea, even for a moment,  
_ _that given my experiences I might have a slightly better understanding  
_ _of what is going on than you?”_

“ _Why? Because I'm 'younger' than you_ _now?”_

“ _What?”_

“ _Because I'm not all versed-up in diplomacy and royal stuff like you are?  
_ _Because I'm not human?”_

“ _... Jack.”_

“ _Forget it.”_

“ _Jack... don't you see?  
_ _I just... I am having a hard time believing any of it, myself.  
_ _It's always been more difficult for me to believe in myself, especially when others have not.”_

“ _But... I believe in you.”_

“ _Yes... and, I think, sometimes, that makes it harder.”_

“ _...what? Why?”_

“ _Because you have to,” she'd whispered, as Jack's stomach sank._   
“ _Because you're my_ _Guardian._ ”)

 

. * * * .


	204. - with epiphany -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/19/15_. This is officially last one of the evening! The next two chapters will be posted over the next two days. :) For more status updates, check my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Everything was **BETA'd** by **ALISON** and **ABIGAIL. <3**

 

 . * * * .

_\- with epiphany -_

. * * * .

 

( _“I see the way you look at me, you know, when I don't have my hoodie.  
_ _When I look like I could pass for any kid in your kingdom.  
  
_ _I think about it, too,_ _sometimes.”)_

  
. * * * .

On the eve of her parents’ departure, Elsa displayed a bit of… startling honesty.

“She takes her boredom for granted,” Elsa nearly hissed, stabbing her needlepoint. Jack had been feeling a little bored himself—until Elsa started attacking her soon-to-be miniature pillow case. Now, Jack was sitting tall on the floor, enraptured in Elsa’s quiet rage and feeling very irrationally lucky that he was not currently within Elsa’s reach. “I’d give almost anything to simply feel _bored_ again.”

“Anna… just doesn’t know any better.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Elsa muttered, sliding her thread quickly through the fabric. Jack kept his mouth judiciously shut. “She doesn’t know _anything_. She’s been just as sheltered as I—if not _more_ so—and now she’s going to be expected to stay afloat in a sea of underhanded politics? _Anna?_ Who wears her heart on her sleeve and wouldn’t know how to conceal her feelings if her life depended on it?” Elsa scoffed, and stabbed. “Congratulations, father—you’ve left your younger daughter completely defenseless in the face of just about anything.”

“Just your father?” Jack couldn’t help but ask. “Not your mother, too?”

“I might blame her more if I could remember that she’s played a part in this too,” Elsa said bitterly, but Jack could hear her sigh.

 _You’re going to miss them_ , Jack thought, and watched her slide her thread through and through, over and over again.

“She doesn't understand,” Elsa hissed, thoughts swiftly retreating back to the soft anger towards her sister. “But how could she? All her life, she’s been lied to—left out and sheltered and… and.” In a sudden rush of breath, Elsa discarded her unfinished project to the side and allowed herself to slouch in her chair; Jack actually reached out his hands to steady her, afraid that she was falling. But nope: just… slouching. His hands remained suspended just inches away, unsure. This was very unusual.

“It's getting worse,” Elsa breathed, exhausted and uncertain. She covered her face with her gloved hands, becoming an almost absurd picture of royal disarray. Jack couldn’t say he minded the dismissal of propriety, even if Elsa surely would later. Before she could remember herself, Jack crawled up to where she was sitting, and placed his chin in her lap. Like Jacqueline sometimes did to him.

“What is?” Jack quipped, because distraction and redirection always worked best. “The longing? The pining? I’m right here, you know.” He dug his chin into her inner thigh, for effect.

But Elsa wasn’t biting.

“I’m so… _so_ angry with them,” Elsa whispered, shielding her eyes with her hands. “All the time.”

“Elsa—you're allowed to be angry at your parents. You're allowed.”

“Yes, well, I thought so too, and now look what’s happened… All those opportunities—wasted. I wasn’t _ready_ to forgive them yet. And neither am I now, but I thought… I just thought I had so much more time.”

“You’ll get it,” Jack reassured her, nudging his chin deeper into the softness of the velvet over her legs. Feeling particularly impish, he flattened his cheek over the spread of her skirts, and slid his face up and down along the length of her thigh. Elsa was finally looking at him again, no doubt watching the devious grin that was screwing up his face, because her flat glare was sending delightful shivers down his spine. He forgot sometimes, how giddy he could feel. Impulsively, he pressed a kiss to the velvet along her inner-thigh. “Who knows,” he murmured. “Maybe you’ll even have enough time to salvage that needlepoint you’ve been mangling all morning.”

Elsa’s eyes narrowed, but her lips quirked. “You,” she gently accused, “are wasting your time here.”

“Nope,” Jack popped his lips. “Jackie’s out doing his business, and Jacqueline is being a busy little fox somewhere in Siberia. Jax is probably being an asshole.”

“Jack,” Elsa murmured, suddenly subdued. “How am I supposed to keep going like this? I can hardly stand to look at them without feeling like I’m about to fall apart.”

Carefully, Jack lifted his head.

“Hey,” he murmured back. “Hey, come on.” He dug his fingers deeper into her skirts. “What is it?”

For a long moment, Elsa hesitated.

“I had a dream the other night,” she confessed, eyes cast downwards. “Actually—more than a few nights. Actually… I have been having the same dream for quite a while.”

Jack felt a rush of blood come pounding through his ears. (In all of their years together, the number of times that Elsa had actually shared with him the contents of one of her dreams was—?)

“What was in it?” he asked, breathless with wonder.

“Well… you, to start,” Elsa listed slowly, heedless of the storm of emotions choking in Jack’s chest, “And Anna. But I was telling her goodbye.”

Jack blinked himself back into alertness. “What?”

“I’d spoken to my parents upon their return from the Southern Isles,” Elsa narrated, voice far off and **wistful**. “I’d told them of my plans, and my conditions, all of which I’ve said before… and they refused. They weren’t able to meet me halfway in anything, and I… I told them I had no other choice. If I was going to fall apart, I wanted it to be on my own terms, with my own conditions.” Elsa played absently with a loose piece of thread from the cushion of her chair. “So I left.”

Jack wasn’t sure he was hearing correctly. “You… _left_?”

“Yes,” Elsa breathed.

“You left… the _kingdom?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ”

“You left _Anna?_ ”

“Yes, Jack,” Elsa snapped, defensive. “I left her behind. All right? I did exactly as I said I would never do, and I told her goodbye and apologized and said that I loved her, and then I strode out of here and left everything I’ve ever known behind—my title, and my crown, and my responsibilities. And I didn’t look back.”

“Elsa,” breathed Jack, stunned. “You’ve been thinking about this?”

A single, slender shoulder lifted, and fell.

“Yes… and no,” Elsa admitted. “I’ve always held a particular distaste for those who ran from their problems… who gave up on their people, who disregarded their responsibilities. But,” Elsa paused, biting her lip. “I can’t help but admit that these dreams have felt rather… liberating.”

“They’re telling you something,” Jack insisted, quick in his eagerness. His fingers caught hold of the velvet seams, and he shifted himself between her legs, leaning forward to better look into her face. “It’s a sign.”

“Of what? That I’m supposed to give _up?_ ” Elsa demanded.

“Not like _that_. Maybe it’s a sign that it’s—that it’s time to move on. Take another stand against your parents. Let the world know that you won’t be caged anymore. You know?”

Elsa huffed, shaking her head, but the curious light wouldn’t leave her eyes. Jack clutched her skirts more tightly. “And expose all of my parents’ secrets?” she murmured **wistfully.** “Ruin decades’ worth of careful trading arrangements and secretive ambassadors? What kind of effect would it have on the kingdom, for everyone to learn that their King and Queen has been harboring a—someone like _me_? There are too many factors to know how it would all play out.”

“So who can say if it would be all that bad?” Jack argued, feeling a deep, impenetrable surge of hope begin to pulse through his veins. “What if you’re an—an _asset_ , or whatever? Or an ally that they can’t afford to lose? What if people revere you?”

“What if they _fear_ me?”

 _Maybe some will_. “But what if it’s like… What if it’s like the way it is for Santa Claus, you know?” Jack rambled on. “Where kids feel _compelled_ to act all nice and good, because Santa Claus holds this sort of power over them.”

“Jack, I hardly think anyone will be expecting me to bring them _presents_.”

“But you see my point, right?” Jack needled. “You see that this could be a good thing. If you want your parents to change,” _if you want the_ world _to change,_ “then maybe you have to kick them in the right direction. Maybe you need to just walk out.”

“And have Anna watch me go?”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek.

“Well,” he added, cautiously. “Who says she wouldn’t follow?”

For a long while, Elsa said nothing.

“I don’t know, Jack,” she said at long last. “I don’t know if I could do it.”

 _I think you could,_ thought he. _I think you might be surprised._

“Maybe, just… think about it?” Jack suggested hopefully. Feeling optimistic, he reached for one of the hands still cradling her face and neck, and brought it down to cover his own. “I mean, you’ve still got—what? Two weeks until they come back? They’ll be all exhausted from international affairs and wedding festivities and Summit agreements, and then you’ll, like, swoop in and starting raising demands and kicking up dirt—“

“Okay, Jack.”

“And _telling_ them what you need to happen, and threatening to leave, and then you’ll _do_ it, and be all badass and they’ll have no choice but to listen to you—“

“Jack,” Elsa smirked, amused and overwhelmed and yet dismissive all the same. “What you’re fantasizing could take years to accomplish.” But Jack wasn’t deterred.

“Please,” he scoffed easily and, feeling bold, slipped an easy hand _beneath_ her skirt. As Elsa gasped at his trailing fingers, Jack grinned, “You think a few years is gonna make a difference to me?"

Elsa looked at him wryly.

“It will to me,” she reminded, arching a brow.

A quick jolt of displeasure punctuated the steady stream of buoyancy flowing through his veins, and Jack glanced up at her with a distinctly annoyed glare for ruining his fun. It was the first time in a very long time ( _ever??_ ) that Elsa, herself, had brought up the matter of their… mismatched aging.

Jack floated upwards, placing his face directly below hers, but hovering just barely out of reach. “You know how I feel about your sass,” Jack muttered, only half-moodily, like a half-hearted punishment.

“ _Oh?_ ” she breathed, with a sensual curve to her smile. Jack had intended to let her come to _him_ , but everything was always so much easier in theory. Jack was already slipping, tilting his face upwards when Elsa darkly, suggestively teased, “I must have forgotten.”

Jack’s eyes snapped open, a shock of cold irony slipping down his spine, and then he forced himself to laugh, and grin and slide his mouth over hers in a nip-come-kiss, and hiss against her lips, “ _Don't even joke_.”

. * * * .

“Huh,” Jamie muttered, reading the title. “Jack Frost.”

“Yo,” Jack saluted, almost mockingly, and tried not to roll his eyes. Jack got the whole ‘determined, single-minded scientist’ thing, honestly, but seriously, this guy really needed to wash his sheets. And get outside, or something. He’d been cooped up in his room for way too long this weekend, all books and notebooks and notes—

“Jack Frost,” said Jamie, deliberately.

Nothing changed. The world did not tilt on its awkward access, the skies did not open with light, and the ground did not shake with epiphany.

But Jack stared, shock-still, as a new slant to Jamie’s determined brow took hold, and Jamie began writing furiously with his pen.

  
. * * *   
  


( _“What if I don't get a fairy tale ending?” Elsa wondered late that night, soft and hushed.  
_ “ _What if I end up the villain?” she worried, as Jack shushed her,  
_ _as he tightened his hold. “What if I'm the monster?”_

_And, through the whisper of a distant memory,  
_ _came an echo, hushed and eerie—_   
  


Snow Queen.)  
  


. * * * .


	205. - proper kiss -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/20/15_. Only chapter for the day. Two more will be posted tomorrow! (For more info, check out my [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com).)
> 
>  
> 
> **BETA'D** by **ALISON** and **ABIGAIL**.

 

. * * * .

_(a)_

_-_ _proper kiss -_

. * * * .  


Just because Jack wasn’t at all visible to anyone but Elsa didn’t mean that he wasn’t incredibly capable of feeling the horribly awkward mix of emotions swirling about at the bottom of the grand staircase in the castle foyer. Pavel was arranging and stacking various pieces of luggage, and Jack’s eyes kept wandering between the mountains of suitcases and the fresh spring flowers adorning the few tables against the wall; he wondered if Anna had helped pick them.

Their goodbyes were a rather quiet affair, which surprised no one, but Jack couldn’t help but dwell on all of the thoughts and dreams and feelings that Elsa had shared with him only the night before, about making demands and taking a stand and walking away. Couldn’t help but notice that when she bid them farewell, she curtsied, and no one reached out a hand, or a shoulder, for an embrace.

“Do you have to go?” Jack overheard her ask, heard her voice break on the final syllable, and was floored.

Positive that he’d misheard, or misunderstood, Jack ignored the swooping sensation of the floor falling out from under him, and then caught sight of the flickering expressions on the faces of the King and Queen, whom he’d been watching. _What were they thinking?_ he wondered.

(“ _You’ll be fine, Elsa_ ,” said the King, with the warmest smile Jack had seen in what probably counted as years, and Jack couldn’t ignore the anger that struck through him, the sense of betrayal and _where was this warmth—all these years ago?_ ) But Jack watched in respectful silence, for Elsa, and said nothing.

Afterwards, Pavel saw the King and the Queen quietly off to the docks, and both Anna and Elsa opted to stay behind; as soon as she’d bade her parents farewell in their chambers, Anna had gone immediately in search of Olga to begin working on her “duties,” and wouldn’t be seen for the rest of the day.

As they made their way back to Elsa’s bedroom, Jack chanced careful glances in her direction every so often, trying to read her mind.

She glared at him with a stiff shoulder and sharp eyes, like she was _daring_ him to say something. Anything.

He didn’t.

. * * * .  


In the days that followed, Jack quickly came to realize that Elsa had found herself a new coping mechanism that he was… rather fond of.

Elsa thought herself rather clever for it, and Jack could not, in any way, complain. When the anxiousness grew too thick, or the impatience built to suffocating strength, Elsa would kiss away her nerves with the chill of Jack’s skin, of their matching mouths, and Elsa— _in all of her conservativeness, and propriety, and self-made cages_ —continued to make up for her lack of exposed skin by revealing his. Jack had never said as much, but he’d almost enjoyed the additional risk of being interrupted by her parents, who were suddenly so much more _involved_ , but this, too— _the very notion that the two of them could leave the castle at any moment, truly, and that there was no one to stop them or get in their way; that Elsa might even be considering it, in that moment_ —well, that. That left a flood of adrenaline in his veins, too.

He calmed himself with the hope that when Elsa _did_ make the decision to leave (if she would; if she threatened to), it would be so much better, because she would be standing up to her parents as she did so, because she would be facing them down. And she would be standing tall.

In the first week or so after her parents’ departure, when the castle became abuzz with all the arrangements for Anna’s coming ball, Elsa confined herself almost entirely to her room, taking meals and tea at her desk with Jack, and not even bothering to feel upset when Olga rushed in and out, caught in the collective current of party-planning. Jack enjoyed the time with her, and appreciated the… privacy.

( _Elsa still refused to take off her gloves._

 _And since she wouldn’t communicate_  
_with her song, or her hands,  
__she used her mouth, instead._ )

It was now a mere nine or ten days later (Jack had stopped counting so carefully), and he’d been making good on his vow to distract Elsa whenever (and however) possible. They were enjoying a leisurely afternoon of nothingness (after an enticing morning of _somethingness_ ) and Jack was already looking forward to the evening’s activities when Bunny showed up out of the blue. (Or, more specifically, a ring of glowing blue snow globe magic.)

“Bunnymund,” said Elsa with pleasant surprise as he stepped forward onto her bedroom rug. “Hello again.”

Jack’s teeth immediately ached with barely-bridled fury, but he tried his hardest not to let Elsa see the force of his displeasure. He hadn’t shared any stories of his disagreements with the other Guardians, though he imagined that Elsa had surmised as much. He was rather hoping not to bring her into it—considering how most of the arguments centered around the fact that she was so thoroughly left _out_.

But as soon as Jack calculated just how angry he really, truly was with Bunny for stopping by—unannounced, no less—and getting Elsa’s hopes back up for, well, whatever, it occurred to him that there were very few reasons in the universe why Bunny would ever do such a thing.

“What happened?” Jack demanded, leaping from his stretch on the cushioned windowsill seat and striding forwards. Elsa, too, rose from her seat at the desk, her open journal slowly falling shut with a trickle of crisp, fluttering pages.

Bunny took a moment to nod politely at Elsa, all fond warmth and slow-creeping sad smiles, and just as another wave of disappointed irritation rocked through Jack’s spine, Bunny turned hard, narrowed eyes onto Jack, and said, “We need you.”

“Why?”

“Trouble,” Bunny replied, crisp and short and to the point.

Jack was already reaching for his staff. “What happened?”

“More like what’s ‘ _bout_ to happen,” Bunny hedged, and when Jack turned back to him with an impatient glare, staff spinning in his hands, Bunny added, “Your kid’s in trouble.”

 _Hiro?_ thought Jack, blindly, then—

“Jamie,” Jack breathed, and with the first spike of adrenaline, felt his world begin to crash.

“He’s making progress a lot faster than we imagined—we think he was getting too close to Believing, so we’re sensing some plans for _interference_ , if you catch my drift. He’s going after the whole army,” Bunny warned, “But he’s got his sights locked on your original.”

“Shit,” Jack hissed, resisting the urge to kick something, and as he contemplated taking a swing with his staff, that’s when he noticed Elsa watching him with concern. Jack looked back to Bunny, meaningfully. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Bunny held Jack’s stare with a bizarrely blank face, then slid his side-eyed glance to where Elsa was standing patiently off to the side. Jack ignored the sharp-shooting swell of discontent that ruptured in his stomach at the sight, then added, “Give me five minutes to explain.”

The Pooka was playing his cards uncharacteristically close to the chest, and Jack couldn’t get a read on his expression at all, but after a few long moments, Bunny nodded in understanding, and bid Elsa a polite, formal, hopelessly fond farewell, and then the room fractured in a bright hole of magic and time and space. Bunny stepped through the portal with a steady foot, and disappeared out of sight.

“You should have left with him,” Elsa immediately chided, though she held up her hands for him to take when he strode forward and reached for them. His forehead tilted firmly into hers, and he breathed deep, unknowing how long this mess would take him, and unsure of how much to share.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly give you a proper kiss goodbye with Bunny standing there,” he reminded her, and then did just that. Long, and swift, and sweet—of twelve years, of three hundred years, of an entire lifetime, and more. Jack nuzzled her nose, and her cheek, and her neck, and let loose a grin when Elsa playfully batted him away. When she relented, and relaxed, Jack’s voice took on a somber, reassuring tone. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

Another soft huff escaped her. “As usual,” Elsa whispered, closing her eyes with trust and quiet and a calming presence that was making it very difficult for Jack to leave. Jack felt his insides warm, and melt, and felt the tiniest tug of a smile. “You should go.”

He didn’t want to, but he _needed_ to. He left with one final kiss—much longer, much more breathless—and then stepped back to open the portal, leaving with one final quip to keep writing about how handsome he was in her journal, and he was pretty sure that she’d tossed something at him as he’d disappeared throughout the portal, but he’d been grinning too hard to notice.

. * * * .

It occurred to him,  
as the Guardians set forth in motion the beginnings of battle,  
that Elsa hadn’t wanted her parents to go, either,  
and that’s exactly what she’d told them to do.

. * * * .

 


	206. - be nimble -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/22/15_.

 

. * * * .

_(Jack)_

_\- be nimble -  
_ _(Jack, be quick)_  


. * * * .

 

It was half past six in Burgess, and Jack was standing in the woods not too far from Jamie’s old house, staring at a large patch of dirt with the rest of the Guardians. He could remember, all too clearly, what it had once felt like to see an old, rickety bed where there was now just an empty clearing, and how it’d felt to fall into the depths of the hole beneath.

North was talking strategy with Sandy and Bunny, and Toothiana was listening in while simultaneously sending her fairy brigades to each of the Burgess (soon-to-be) Believers, checking in as they went about their peaceful evenings. There was a quiet hush that Jack didn’t like, the calm before a storm, and Jack could feel it in the steady chirp of crickets, the fresh bite of New England’s crisp spring air. Jack hated waiting.

“There’s no interference in the Vaults,” offered Toothiana softly. “Their Memories are just as guarded as ever.”

“We should tell Jamie to invite Monty over,” Bunny suggested. “Write ‘im with that stupid typewriter of yours.”

“No,” Jack shook his head. “Monty shouldn’t be traveling alone. It could make him more vulnerable if he’s out in the open. Tell Jamie to go to him, and bring the typewriter with him.”

“That’s an awful lot to ask,” Bunny pointed out.

“Turn it into a riddle,” Jack answered smoothly. “He’ll put more stock into it if he thinks it’s a clue to a bigger picture.”

“Isn’t it already, though?”

“Well, yeah. But the point is still the same. Jamie isn’t just going to take orders from a stupidly enchanted typewriter—he has to think that there’s a _reason_ why we can’t just come out and tell him what’s happening, and that it’s up to him to figure it out. He’s got a bit of a savior complex.”

“Yeah,” Bunny sighed, and raked his claws through the fur at the base of his ears. “Wonder where _that_ came from.”

“Anyway,” Jack pointedly rolled on, “Get him to take Pippa with him. She’s the only other one who knows about the typewriter, and he could use a bit of support.”

“All right,” said North, soft but booming, “What then?”

It took Jack a moment to realize that they were all listening to _him_. Somehow, inadvertently, he’d become the key speaker of this strategy session. “And then… I give them a sign, I guess.”

Bunny, who knew exactly how Jack felt about these things, arched an eyebrow. “A sign?” he echoed, dubiously. “You sure about that, mate?”

Jack shrugged. “Now’s a good a time as any.”

“How right you are,” North muttered, and cracked his knuckles. “And now—it is time. PHIL. VLAD. Bring me typing mechanism. It is time for my words of magic! I shall be poet, and I did not even know it.”

Bunny cursed beneath his breath, but Jack distinctly heard, “ _Here we go_.”

“Let’s do this quick,” Jack said, with surprising firmness, spinning his staff restlessly in two wide-sweeping arcs. “Before it gets dark.”

“Aye, aye,” saluted Toothiana, flying away fast, and then Sandy was gone with a wink, floating off to survey the land and keep young Dreams golden. Jack watched them go with only the smallest slice of bitterness.

“You all right, Frost?”

Jack turned back to look at Bunny and North, both of whom were staring at him with curious, cautious eyes. Jack knew he was slightly distracted—his heart, after all, had been left in Arendelle—but in some ways, he was more focused than ever. As soon as Jamie was secured—( _and this was it, wasn’t it, he was going to_ Believe _again, and soon_ )—Jack was going to race straight back to Arendelle and hold Elsa in his arms and kiss every inch of her until the word _apology_ had lost all meaning. With any luck, he could do so before midnight.

“Never better,” answered Jack, with his sarcasm thick and his grin impishly wide, and his eyes gleaming with mischief. It’d been a while since Jack had seen any days of battle and, if truth be told—

He was starting to feel like there was a bit of unfinished business.

. * * * .

 _Which raised the question_ —much later, as Jack and Bunny were watching over a very animated living room-floor-conversation between Jamie, Pippa, and a less than enthusiastic Monty—

Just what, exactly, was Jack’s role in all of this? Pitch’s hatred for the Guardians knew no bounds, and his vengeance had already spanned the course of centuries, and now that vendetta surely included _Jack_ , but… how?

( _He offered you a seat of power, and you  
_ considered _it  
_ _and then you refused,_  
and you thwarted his plans.)

And then he’d spent the next twenty years sending the Guardians signs of dismay and destruction, in bloody dreamcatchers and broken baby teeth, leaving hidden trails of exclusion that only Jack might notice, subtly reminding Jack that he was beneath his notice, or _invisible_ , or who knew what. Was the old bastard just playing on Jack’s old insecurities? (Didn’t he realize that it didn’t affect him the same way anymore? _Not the way it used to._ ) Or was he hinting at something? Because if Pitch truly, truly wanted revenge—if he wanted revenge on Jack—then there was no question as to where his weaknesses lay.

( _But Elsa’s Memories  
__were hidden and stored and safe,  
__and so were Jack’s,  
__and even though taking away her Memories might have been the surest way  
__to break him,  
__there was no_ way—)

( _But say that Pitch_ did _manage  
to break  
or bury  
her Memories…  
  
__How would Jack go about bringing them out?_ )  
  


And there, on Monty’s living room floor, at quarter past eight, sitting next to a morosely brooding Bunny, Jack was suddenly caught by an _idea_ : 

Had Anna ever tried to dig back up her Memories of Elsa’s magic?

She wasn’t, after all, even aware that those layers of Memory were trapped _inside_ her—but what would happen if she tried? (What if _he_ helped?) If he could somehow… _resurface_ Anna's Memories, naturally—could he give Elsa have another ally?

 _Maybe_ , Jack thought, desperately, maybe Anna could help Elsa with some ( _all_ ) of the things that he couldn’t help her with, the things that she wouldn’t listen to him about: talking to her parents, sharing her magic, opening up about her happiest Memories and her worst Fears, and _fighting_ them—

This was new territory. This was new _ground_ , and new hope, and new planning and suddenly Jack was very much swept away with it all, adding to his list of apology kisses and late night closeness and _should he mention this to Elsa?_ Or should he keep it a secret ( _add it to the growing pile_ ), let it play out on its own, claim that it was part of his efforts to ascertain ( _foster?_ ) Anna’s level of Belief, because what Jack was thinking was nearly impossible, but Jack was already _well_ into his efforts into achieving the actually-impossible that very evening, so honestly, _what’s a little more?_

It was a risk, Jack noted, tightening his grip on his staff. A big one, like most things were when there was something valuable on the line. (But no more than accepting one’s first Assignment as Guardian, or taking an oath, or taking a leap of faith, whether or not anybody ever sent a little frost-bunny floating their way.) Love was always sort of a risk, wasn’t it?

And on that note, Jack raised his staff in a somber salute to years of silence, of ( _chosen?_ ) invisibility, of keeping out of sight and not answering a non-Believer’s calls, and knew exactly which sign to send them.

Which was probably why it hurt so badly—the searing pain that tore through his stomach all of a sudden, just like the day of the Accident but so much _deeper._ So much stronger, so much colder, scraping against his bones and his core and his skull—and abruptly there was a pulse, low within his ribcage, something beating fast and panicked and taking over his heart.

Jack heard the indistinct shush of voices as a chill swept fiercely through the room, kicking up papers and billowing out curtains—and by the time Jack regained at least part of his awareness, he realized that Bunny was at his side, claws clutching tightly at his arm. Jack’s fist was gripping the fabric at his chest, and Bunny was looking at him with wide eyes, all fast-beating panic and crippling alertness, and— _though he had never, ever, ever felt it before, not once in his godforsaken life_ —Jack instantly recognized it for what it was.

“No,” Jack whispered, clutching at his chest, stumbling as he tried to rise, and fell.

Bunny’s claws pricked into his flesh as he tripped over his own feet, then again as he reached down to retrieve his staff. Jamie and the others scuffled about the room, talking quickly and quietly about something he couldn’t hear, and Jack’s dizziness was fading, but adrenaline was rolling his stomach, and then soft, smooth darkness, “ _Jack be nimble,_

_Jack be quick,_

_Jack jumps over the candlestick_.”

The humans were hissing back and forth to one another, hurriedly closing window curtains and stacking up flashlights, and Bunny swore loudly into the haze of commotion. Jack was too stunned to say anything back. He couldn’t breathe.

“ _My_ ,” whispered a voice, straight from the shadows. “ _Do you ever learn, Frost?”_

Something feral unleashed from this throat, crude and guttural and thrashing, and then Bunny was raking his claws into his chest in an effort to hold him back, digging into muscle and magic and pure _will_ , and Jack’s fingers clutched the shrieking pain in his heart so tightly that his whole hand shook, that his whole body trembled with hatred.

“ _Get out of here!_ ” Bunny snarled, already reaching for the snow globe in Jack’s pocket. He looked more an animal now than Jack had ever seen, spitting and snarling and sharp-clawed, and when he shoved the snow globe into Jack’s free hand, he drew blood. “ _I’ll take care of the kids!_ ”

Jack said nothing, only pushed past Bunnymund to stumble into the next room, dragging and snagging his staff on darkened corners as he used his battle-hand to hold onto his chest, the other hand gripping fiercely at his only lifeline—

“ _I thought we’d already been over this,”_ hissed the voice, disembodied but _too close_ , _too close_ and Jack snarled in retaliation, grimacing deep and ferocious and pained as another shockwave of awareness wrapped and shuddered around his spine; each pulse screaming, each breath catching, each thought a stuttering _where are you where are you where are you whereareyouwhereareyouwhereareyouwhere where wherewherewherewherewhere—_

“ _Jack Frost,”_ greeted the shadows; the cold, dead voice of Pitch Black, “ _Always leaving such precious things_

 _unattended._ ”

Jack snarled as his shoulder caught a corner and his face slammed into a wall, but he was heaving the snow globe across the room before the last of the sounds ripped from his mouth. He tore open the portal, calling upon the winds before he’d even pushed himself from the wall, wreaking havoc in Jamie’s foyer and then throwing himself through the opening with heedless abandon, letting the wind catch him as he soared high above the seas. It was already dark in the realm of Arendelle—

Until Jack realized that he wasn’t in Arendelle at all.

Gasping in the sharp night air of a dark, Mediterranean sea, Jack stared with disbelieving eyes at the bright castle of Corona, alight with an endless display of not lanterns, but candles—in windows and torches and floating on tiny beds upon the harbor. Jack stared, gasping wretchedly at the impossibility of it all, then heaved the snow globe through the air _again_ , screaming “ _Arendelle!_ ” at the top of his lungs, and burst forward to catch the ring of light… which never came.

Jack felt his throat grow raw with the snarl that ripped its way out of his mouth, and then dove down with dizzying speed to catch the snow globe before it disappeared into the blackness of the harbor. A single, wavering moment to catch his breath, and then Jack tore loose another thunderous roar, let his ice shoot spikes from his fingertips, and then he surged northward, with the wind screaming through his hair and whipping at his eyes, with the scent of a not-so-distant storm fresh on his tongue, mingling with the sudden taste of blood. It was a long journey from Corona to Arendelle, even with speeds like Jack’s.

But Jack Frost was a Guardian, as much an animal as he was a spirit, as much a human as he was immortal, as fast as he was willing and—by the Moon, he was _willing_ —he was inhuman and powerful and threaded with the tangles of magic, thrumming with the strength of countless Believers and the hollow, deafening roar of desperation; he was flying, and his chest was threatening to split him apart at the seams, but he was _coming_.

“ _Hold on_ ,” he whispered, and prayed with vision gone blurry, surging only forward, and thought briefly, inescapably, all of his plans bled dry—of all of his hopes slipping out of reach, and his dreams crumbling, and how frantically this pulse was beating inside him. He closed his eyes, just briefly, and let himself think, just for a moment, of how long it might take for Elsa to forgive him.

Pitch’s laughter echoed in his ears, drowning out the winds, and Jack raged forward, praying all the while— _he will never get his claws on her, he will never, he will_ never—

An eternity later, the candlelit windows of Arendelle sparked into view, and Jack felt bile rise in his throat at the soft stillness of the darkness, felt a soft cry escape into the night winds at the tiny sight of Elsa’s flickering window in the far off distance, felt his chest and throat seize with anticipation and uncertainty and the knowledge that _he had no idea what to expect_ as he soared ever closer— _still so far, still too far away_ —and he let himself hear it, even if only in his mind—the truth, the impossible, the _no, it can’t happen now_ and _why_ now, _why_?

Elsa had reached her Turning Point.

. * * * .

 


	207. - true fear -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _10/23/15_.
> 
>  
> 
>  **TW** in end notes.

 

. * * * .

_\- true fear -_

. * * * .

 

Jack flew straight to the window and yanked upon the handle with all his might; felt a curious tearing sensation rip down from his shoulder, and blinked, lost with confusion—

It was locked.

A deep, gruesome sound of panic, and then Jack was banging on the hazy glass, leaving cracks of frost in between the diamond bars. “Elsa!" he shouted, pounding his fists. He barely gave it a moment's worth of patience before he was rounding the castle tower, racing alongside castle walls, slip-sliding over icy bricks and mortar until he'd come to a cracked-open window in one of the southwestern corridors. Heedless of the nasty breeze he'd brought in, Jack raced through the too-quiet halls, speeding toward her bedroom door, half-expecting to find it frozen solid _except_ —

What he found, instead, was Anna.

There, small upon the floor, with gently curled fingers resting against the door. Servants were already gathering about the Princess, remarking worriedly over how chilled she was and _quick—shut all the windows, before she catches cold!_ and before Jack could even get a closer look at Elsa’s door itself, he was flying back towards the corridor’s open window, slamming frost upon the glass in his haste, until he was back outside, racing toward Elsa’s locked window, prepared to scream and shout and _break the goddamn window in_ , and it was when he reared back his fist to aim for the glass that he realized it was already open.

It was hanging ajar.

With such sudden slowness that it left Jack’s head spinning, he carefully removed his hand from where it’d once again wound itself around his heart, and reached for the swinging window pane. It opened easily.

The room was glowing with firelight, and lamplight, and two lit candles sitting at the sill—

“ _Don’t_ ,” came Elsa’s voice from the opposite side of the room, and when Jack looked up he was met with a horrid wave of relief, and longing, because she was _alive unhurt untouched remarkable—_

“What happened?” he breathed, smoothly stepping inside and clambering towards the floor, but Elsa’s sharp cry of _“Wait!”_ halted him in his tracks.

“Don’t let them go out!” Elsa hissed, voice wet, and with a jolt Jack realized that she was referring to the two candles on the sill, and the breeze that he’d brought with him inside. Hastily, Jack shut the window.

He turned back immediately after, bringing his staff with him as he quickly padded over the floor. Elsa had hidden her face in her arms again, into the protective shield of the ball that she’d curled herself into, and when Jack gently lay his staff on the floor to the side, Elsa did not look up.

" _Elsa_ ," he whispered, thinking of all those times and those moments where Elsa spoke of how fragile he sometimes saw her, like he was afraid of breaking her. But he was. “What happened?”

Jack raised a hand to lay upon her shoulder, but Elsa shook her head, vehement and fast, and Jack found himself drowning with equal parts relief and fear. ( _He doesn’t have her_ , thought Jack, almost high with the realization. _He can’t touch her. He won’t. He won’t, he won’t, he_ won’t _—_ )

“I’m sorry,” Jack said instead, and leaned close to her ear, untouching but _there_. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Elsa—I don’t know what happened, but if I’d had any idea I would never have left, I’d have never’ve—”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Elsa whispered, her voice barely audible, and Jack felt the distant thrum of that familiar pulse beating inside him. Spinning and beating and spiraling downward. It dizzied him and focused him all the same.

“What… what’s—?”

“They’re gone,” she said.

Jack’s eyes roved over Elsa’s pale face, drinking in the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the redness to her cheeks. Had she been crying? She must have, but how long ago had she stopped? ( _Or had she not yet started?_ ) The temperature of the room was comfortable for a human, typical of a warm night in late spring, and there wasn’t a single trace of any snowflake to be found, anywhere. Elsa’s gloves were smooth and pristine and _on_ , and Jack was… at a loss.

“Who?” Jack whispered, nudging closer.

At first, Elsa said nothing. She was still wearing the same dress that she’d been wearing when he’d left, however many hours before— _Where was Jamie? Bunny? Had they seen a sign? What had happened? What was going on?_ —the very same dress that she’d worn when she’d bade her parents farewell at the bottom of the grand staircase, however many days before. Elsa lifted her head, and Jack waited.

“It’s a little ridiculous, isn’t it,” she remarked tonelessly, with a wry bitter twist that left a sick feeling in Jack’s gut. “I’d thought so poorly of myself, before… My life had seemed so destitute.”

“Elsa,” Jack butt in, trying to refrain from snapping, but growing more demanding in spite of himself. “What _happened_?”

“I thought things were so terrible,” she said softly, almost laughing, and shook her head against the wooden door. Her eyes glanced toward the tall ceiling, and Jack drank in her profile, in the gleam of firelight upon her face, and wondered why the light seemed so cold. “What a fool, I am.

“Anna will attend our parents’ funeral alone,” she whispered. “Because I can't control myself.”

It took a moment to sink in. When it did, it took Jack’s heart with it.

“Elsa,” he breathed, and captured her face in his hands, and felt his stomach heave as he looked into her glazed, unseeing eyes. Was this _medicine?_ Was this shock? (Was this _Elsa_?) “Elsa, look at me. I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Elsa, look at me. It’s gonna be okay. You can—it’s okay to—to feel whatever you’re feeling. We can go somewhere—you can let it out however you want. We just have to get out of this place, go to the mountains, and you can let it all out, a whole fucking blizzard if you want—“

“It’s so much harder,” Elsa whispered, “once it’s let out, to reel it back in. I can’t, Jack. I can’t.”

“ _Elsa_ —” Jack whispered, hoarse and harsh and urgent. “Elsa, no one is expected to _control_ themselves when something like this happens!”

“I am,” she whispered back, hollow. “A Queen is.”

 _Queen_ , thought Jack, in a swell of panic, as _one day_ swiftly became _one day soon_.

"Jack," she whispered, breath catching. “Jack, they're gone. They’re dead.”

He pulled her into his arms and buried her face in his neck, clutching her tight to his chest, but no tears came, nothing, absolutely nothing. She clung to him gently while Jack tightened his hold, and panic, starting small and ferocious and screaming, began worming once more into his chest.

“Come with me,” he told her, rocking her on the floor. “Let’s go.”

“Jack—I’m losing everything about myself,” she whispered, half the words lost into the fabric of his hoodie, but not the grief. "Little by little."

“Hey,” Jack made shushing, soothing sounds, burying his fingers in the hair at the base of her skull. “Hey, listen to me—you still have people you love, okay? So many people who love you. It’s okay, it’s okay to hurt, _I know_ , I know, and Anna is still here, and so am I, and—”

"But am I?" Elsa asked, stopping him in his tracks. “Jack… is this living? What good am I to Anna like this? To anyone? To you?”

Jack pulled back, grasping her jaw in his hands so she could see his face. Her eyes were so deep, and dark, and lovely, and so _lost_. He'd never heard her talk like this. It sounded like something he might hear in his own head, in his own corner of darkness. He hated it.

"Anna has only ever wanted her sister," he said softly, gently. “And… you’ll be there for each other," he reminded her, brushing back her bangs. They were already growing into her eyes. Jack thought of his distant plans, and wondered, _is there still hope for them, after all?_

“ _She doesn’t want me,”_ Elsa uttered, the first thing he’d heard that was close to any sort of hiccup, any sort of break in her composure, and Jack slid his thumbs over her cheeks, desperate to pull the emotion from her, desperate to show her it was _okay to let it out_ —

“She does,” he hushed, almost encouragingly in his renewed hope, and he viciously tried to tamp down his own selfish relief, to remember the reality, to _let it sink in_ , because her parents were _gone_ , they were dead, oh _god_ , they were gone, and Elsa was left, and— 

Her gaze was disturbingly flat. “How can you be so sure?” she whispered. 

This wasn't like her—the strength of this bitterness and self-defeat. Not like _this_. She was in shock. She had to be. (The Elsa he knew wouldn't say things like this.

 _Would she?_ ) 

“I _am,_ ” he insisted, thinking of little Anna curled up on the floor only minutes ago, still waiting on the other side of her sister’s door. "Maybe even now more than ever. You have—"

"What I have is _dangerous!_ " Elsa seethed, sudden emotion gritting through her teeth as she pushed herself away from him slightly, leaning back into the wall of the door. Snowflakes shuddered and flickered into stiff existence around them, and Jack's eyes glanced to them of their own volition—he quickly forced himself to look away.

But Elsa stared back, knowingly; her eyes held a sort of determination in her bittersweet victory, like he'd just proven something important.

"I am losing control," she confessed, voice steady but words frighteningly hollow. "I'm losing whatever meager strength I'd had over them. Jack… I'm losing everything." 

Unnerved, he bit out, "You still have your sister! You still have _me_!"

“But for how _long_ , Jack?" she hissed, and her abrupt anger startled  him—angered and enraged him, bit into his cheeks and his blood and his brain.   

"What the _hell_ , Elsa—? I'm not going anywhere!" he growled, determined to make her believe him, his volume rising. "Can't you see that? God _dammit_ , Elsa—it's been twelve years!" he bit off, gasping for breath. Spots danced in his vision, and Jack struggled to regain his composure, panting heavily. The pulse still throbbed in his heart, his gut, his brain.

"Jack…” she looked at him, and her sudden softness scared him. "That's not what I mean."

He didn't understand right away.

"How will this story end, Jack?" she asked, far too gently. "When I've grown _old_?" she demanded, voice fraying. "When I'm sick and frail? Or will it be sudden and unexpected—senseless and young, like my parents?"

"Don't talk like that," he rasped, voice too constricted to properly hiss. He was very thoroughly beginning to _freak_ out. 

Elsa's jaw stiffened. Wryly, with mirthless, breathy laughter, she asked, “Will you still treasure an old woman, Jack?" 

Jack's nostrils flared. ( _She should know better_.) She should know.

"You mean everything to me," Jack answered, voice tight. Elsa's unrelenting silence didn't appease him. "You're the reason that I'm _here_. You think I'll care about you any less in ten, twenty—a hundred years? You're wrong," he declared, drawing strength from his conviction, almost to the point of spitting accusation. "It's been twelve years and you still don't believe me, but fine,” he spat, and tried to ignore the fresh wave of nausea that tore through him as Elsa slid herself farther away, leaning back into the solid stretch of the door and out of his lap. “Whatever,” he bit out, bitter and tired and angry and exhausted and lost and holy _shit, they’re gone—_ “If it takes another decade to prove it to you, I'll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes, Elsa.”

She laughed.

"Twelve years have passed awfully quickly, Jack,” she smiled at him with cold, blank eyes. Jack stomach turned, and he reached for her hand instinctively. The gloved fingers were limp in his hold, but he didn’t care, _he didn’t care_. “I can't imagine that the rest will pass much more slowly."

"With whatever time I've got, then,” he bit out stubbornly. But Elsa's sharp smile flaked and sobered. Once more, her eyes grew deep and dark. And Elsa marveled at him.

"It will be over for you soon anyway, won't it?" she wondered. "In the grand scheme of eternity... our time together is just a mere blink of the eye."

"Elsa, _knock it off!_ Just—jesus, just _listen_ to me, all right? Your body is tired. You're… you're in _shock_ , okay? We’ve gotta get out of here. I’ll put you to bed in a few hours, whenever you want, but first, we’ve gotta—you're in pain, and—look. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm right here, with you. I'm not going anywhere."

Something flickered through Elsa's gaze. She was looking at him now like she'd never seen him before; like she'd seen him almost every single day for most of her life; like she was trying to figure out who he really was.

Like she'd known all along.

"No," she whispered slowly. "You're not."

Jack grew uneasy.

"No," he promised, carefully. "I'm not."

He took her hands. They were _so_ —

"And you won't be," Elsa said again, with understanding, with grave certainty. "And you won't, ever… you'll stay with me, until the end of my days. No matter what happens, no matter who else needs you, you’ll be here... until I am old and dying, and alone, and you are all I have left. If I even make it that far."

"Elsa. Elsa, _look_ at me. You don't—this isn't the right time. Okay? Jesus, you just lost your _parents_ —"

She gripped his hands suddenly, a wild gleam in her eyes. Her voice was low, and even, and her nails bit into his flesh, even through the silk of her gloves, "You will not watch me crawl to my deathbed, Jack Frost,” eyes wide—nearly frantic. "Do you promise?"

"Elsa… we need to get _out_ of here, okay? We need to get you out of the castle, just for a minute—fresh air. Clear your head."

"Do you promise me?" she urged, nails _biting_. "I don't care what you've told me before, because I need you to promise me, right now, that you won't. You _won't._ "

Jack's throat was closing in, swelling hot with urgency. ( _She wants you to promise_ , a voice was telling him.) But Jack Frost didn't— _he didn't_ —

"I—you can't—you can't stay in this room, Elsa," he croaked, pressing his forehead into hers. She clenched her eyes shut, turning and twisting her face away, _bumping noses, scraping skin_. Irrational fear gripped him, and as Elsa tried to duck her head Jack pressed harder, forcing her face to lift toward his. "This _room_ —it's messing with your head. Come with me— _hold onto_ —Elsa, we can't _stay_ here," he hissed. “Come with me."

Her grip loosened; he clutched them tighter. And then she looked at him.

Really, really looked at him.

" _Elsa_ ," he begged.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she whispered, lips dry and cracking. "But one of us has to be the Guardian."

Gently, Elsa closed her eyes.

"Elsa," he demanded, his breathing loud and heavy. "What are you doing? Elsa, look at me."

( _The feeling of her hands:  
__sharp knuckles and and fine bones  
__and soft skin and pristine silk.  
__Her hands were so cold._

 _Even to him_.)

"Elsa… _Elsa!_ "

"When I was a little girl," she swallowed, hard and thick, "I had a nightmare."

The little hairs on Jack's arms pricked and stood, and still the little pulse kept singing, a steady _beat beat beat_ —

"I'd had so many nightmares before, but this one.... It felt more real to me than anything I'd ever feared before. I dreamt it only once, but I never forgot. I was woken up before I could finish it... by you."

He was speechless. ( _She can’t be talking about… It couldn’t have been—_ )

“I buried it down,” said Elsa, as something jolted _deep_ inside Jack, something sharp and crystalline, something that spoke of darkness and _true fear—_ “Deeper than I buried my own secrets,” Elsa went on, as Jack struggled to find his voice, “and I never let it up again, not once, even through _everything_ , no matter how it clawed at me for years after, always as I drifted between waking and sleep. The memory of it whispered to me sometimes, but I never listened, because I... I was so sure. But why? What reason did I...? I could only remember that it had felt so _real_ …"

(Her voice sounded so far away.

 _Where had she gone?_ )

"And now... I can almost remember it," she whispered, as she choked on a sudden breath of air. Something grew hard inside him— _hard and cold and heavy, and_ — "I've been a fool," she whispered, hollow, like suddenly a piece of her was missing, or had been found. "Haven't I?"

" _Elsa_ ," he gripped her hands, voice tearing upwards through his clogged throat, and he was—he was pleading now. "Elsa, _look_ at me."

"I... I wanted someone to have magic like my own," Elsa whispered, quiet and despairing, eyes shut tight against the light of the room. "I was—I was so desperate to have a friend in my little world. Pathetic and sad," Elsa laughed, bitter and broken. "And I was _so_ , so lonely.

"I made you up," she whispered.

Cold ice washed over him—from the tips of his hair, down to his toes.

" _Elsa_ ," he choked.

Tears welled at the corners of her closed-shut eyes, spilling over and onto her cheeks. "I made you up," she whispered, steady voice growing lost to the words, uneven and catching, "Because I needed you. Because I needed you _so_ badly, but even after this, this—this _grand_ story, this pathetic delusion, one day you'll _lose_ me, to death or time or senility, and if that's not the worst delusion there is, then I don't know what else could be."

" _Elsa_ ," Jack whispered, throat lodged tight, stunned and constricted— "Elsa, _stop_."

"Delusions of a desperate, lonely little girl,” Elsa rasped, and Jack tried kissing her face, her hair. He clung onto her hands, but when he did, Elsa sobbed with each touch, so many gentle whimpers and cries. Elsa released a terrible little laugh, hollow and self-loathing. ( _His mouth and his hands weren’t helping, he realized. His affection was only drawing her further into herself—into her story, her delusion, her denial, her—_ )

( _Doubt_.)

He clutched more tightly onto her arms, desperate to pull her back, but her voice was brimming with irony. Tears fell with each kiss. “And apparently,” Elsa whispered, a bitter smile upon her lips. “A desperate young woman, too.”

His eyes were burning. His throat was seizing with panic, and he held painfully tight to her hands. _If I let go_ —he had the inescapable, incomprehensible feeling that he would never, ever get them back.

"You're not real," she breathed. 

" _No_ ,” Jack gasped, stricken. His throat was _raw_ , he couldn’t breathe. “No, no, nononononono, stop, Elsa, _stop_."

"You're not real," Elsa began to sob with renewed strength, choking on her own words. "You're not really here,” she cried, as Jack’s nails became claws in her dress. His teeth pressed into her mouth, her cheek, his forehead bruising against hers. “I made you up,” Elsa shook her head, trying to dislodge him, but Jack clung tighter, made wordless sounds of disbelief. They were gasping, and she was crying, and Jack was uttering endless strings of _Elsa, please_ —

“ _I'm here, in this room, alone_. You're not real. You’re not _real._ ”

“ _Elsa_ —”

He didn't feel it, at first.

The signal was the cry, wrenched not from his own throat but from hers, and then Jack's wrists hit the floor.

(the familiar feeling  
the disorienting sensation of being somewhere _you’re not supposed to be  
_ the sense of shifting through time and space and life itself)

Jack's chest was directly through Elsa's knees.

And then a sound escaped, neither human nor animal, as his head grew dizzy and his eyes grew wide, breaths coming in shallow, sharp, suffocating jabs  
another noise tore through his throat, and then his body jerked—that sickening, soul-splitting feeling of _you are not supposed to be here_ — _you are not welcome here_ — _you don’t belong here_ —and then Jack's fingers were scrabbling at the hardwood, trying to move away

his throat gagged, but the constriction trapped the bile, suffocating him on the air he didn’t need. Elsa's sobs echoed in his ears, louder, _harder_ , and still Jack's wide eyes took in the sight of Elsa's left knee protruding directly through his sternum  
his world spun and he was dry-heaving, rolling onto his back—his stomach—and then retching out his lungs, but there was nothing, nothing at all, nothing but his burning eyes and his burning throat and burning chest and burning fingers—

because he was nothing again, because

( _you_

_don’t_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _exist_ )

His shuddering fingers tightened over the wooden floorboards, belly pressed firmly into the floor. Elsa was crying in anguish, and Jack stared at his hands, at the way they felt the splinters beneath his fingertips, at the way he felt the give and pressure of the air around him, around his hands and the solid floor and the air, eyes wide, and disbelieving.

"No," he whispered, cracking lips and cracking voice. It hurt to _breathe_ , hurt to lay here upon the floor, the hard press of reality pressing hard against his sternum, his churning stomach, ragged breaths and panic, blinding, screaming panic, Jack's head snapped up, searching—

"NO!" he screamed, bolting to his knees, stumbling in his haste—

—his right hand fell through her stomach, shimmering blue light of worlds apart. 

A dark scream ripped from his throat, hoarse and gurgling as he watched Elsa's body mold around his, live and breathe and _exist_ around his, without his, beyond his reach.

Elsa's quiet sobs were deafening.

"ELSA!" he shouted, unable to tear away his hand, unable to tear away his gaze. "NO!" he gagged, then forced his hand aside, hips and shins and ribs all intermingling together in the most sickening of ways, until Jack somehow shifted himself closer to her side, both hands safely on the door—

"ELSA!" he called, loud and forceful, into her ear. "ELSA, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! LOOK AT ME!" he bellowed, pressing hard to the door as Elsa held her face in her hands. "ELSA!" he screamed. " _ELSA!_ "

Her shoulders sobbed and shook and quivered with violent, hiccuping gasps: the same, familiar tearing of breath ripping from her lungs.

She was having a panic attack.

Terror curled in his belly, far worse than anything he could have ever imagined. "ELSA!" he called again, face aching with the force of it, throat on fire and eyes straining, lip curled back— "ELSA! ELSA, LISTEN TO ME! I'M HERE! I'M RIGHT HERE! I'M RIGHT—"

She couldn't breathe. She was clutching her chest, hyperventilating so fiercely it was nearly suffocating, and all the breath left him, every scant drop—

" _Elsa_ ," he croaked, insides torn. " _Elsa_ , I'm—I'm right _here_ ," he pleaded, breaking on every which word, because he _was_ , he was _there._

"It's okay," he told her, fingernails scraping over painted snowflakes. "It's gonna… it's gonna be okay," he promised, a soft hush to the blaring melody of her broken panic. "Elsa, just… just look at me. Okay? Just—stop messing around. Just—just look at me." 

Elsa's eyes rose toward the ceiling, uncontrollable breaths leaving her body with no promise of return, and tears cut trails down her face like diamonds.

"Elsa, look at me," he begged, fingernails curling under splinters, but he didn't feel a thing. "Elsa… _please_. Look at me."  

Elsa's panic did not subside for an hour.

By the time it released its clutches, slowly, one claw at a time, Elsa lay collapsed upon the floor, temple upon the hardwood, eyes blank and unseeing and soul left broken. Only a small hiccup of breath, every once in a while, returned her to awareness, short and fleeting, and painful.

Jack knew. Jack knew because he lay beside her, eyes blank and unseeing and soul left broken, because Elsa was staring through him, at nothing, like nothing.

She was so close.

Jack had stopped trying to touch her.

"Elsa," he whispered, throat raw. His eyes glazed beneath the weight of their lids, lost and confused. "Elsa. I'm here. Look at me," he murmured, lips bloodied fresh from cracking again, the taste of it still metallic on his tongue. He'd stopped breathing, to better hear hers. "Elsa... look at me."

But she didn't.

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. * * * .

 

And far away,  
upon a globe of magic,  
  
there was a shimmering blue ring of light,  
and, _at the center_ ,  
a little white Light  
had gone

 _out_.

 

. * * * .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. * * * .

( [x](https://soundcloud.com/caspia/slowly-freaking-out) )

( [x](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1139506/chapters/2384512) )

. * * * .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW:** panic, panic attacks, brief mentions of squicky violence


	208. ( oh— )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/3/16_. If you are reading this it is probably because: (a) you love me, (b) you're somebody who's been waiting 3-4 months for an update and ~~ARE READY FOR ONE HELL OF AN EXPLANATION AND HELL DO I HAVE ONE FOR YOU~~ want to know where the hell I've been, or (c) you are a genuinely lovely person who takes the time to read authors' notes!! :) :)
> 
> Since the last update of _at the center_ , I have: finished graduate school, written my master's thesis (beta'd by the same betas who beta this godforsaken fic!!!!), started spiraling myself downwards into star wars fandom hell, taught myself to crochet, MET for the first time IN-PERSON my lovely beta **ALISON** after almost four years of friendship, and spent one very wild drunken long celebratory weekend in Las Vegas. (Did I mention that I wrote my master's thesis? If you were looking for the explanation of the delay of chapter updates, THAT'S IT, RIGHT THERE. ♥) 
> 
> I am very excited to be back to work on this story because I am hoping to FINISH IT very soon, but please keep in mind all of the aforementioned life-happenings above (i.e. for a very brief time in my life, there was a very real fear that I would accidentally start trying to source my fic in APA format simply out of habit.) Be gentle with meeeeeeeee.
> 
>  **BETA'D** by the lovely **ABIGAIL** and (soon-to-retroactively-beta) **ALISON**. 
> 
> I AM VERY HAPPY TO BE WRITING FIC AGAIN.  
>  ~~P.S. don't be too mad.~~

 

 

 

 

 

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When the blackness came, Jack was too weak to fight.

 _Do you finally have everything you wanted, Pitch?_ he wondered,  
staring at Elsa’s tear-streaked face.

_Are you satisfied yet?_

 

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**( VIII )**

 

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. * * * .

( _oh—_ )

. * * * .

 

At first, Jack recognized only voices.

“ _Girls—girls, hold back! Give him space!”_

_“Phil, go get North. What? I don’t give a rat’s ass—tell the Groundhog he can bloody wait a week!”_

“ _Stop_ ,” Jack rasped, and the gravel in his voice prevented him from sounding as imposing as he’d intended; so did the soft hands that cradled his face a few moments later. _Elsa?_ “Stop talking so loud.”

_“Jack? Jack, can you hear us?”_

_“Oi! You up, kid?”_

“I could and I would be if you would stop _shouting_.”

“ _Oh_ —Jack!”

At just about the same time that Toothiana threw her arms around his neck, Jack realized that he was lying down. On a bed or a couch, he didn’t know, but he distinctly recognized the warm golden glow of Tooth’s palace walls. Nothing else made sense. _Too warm_ , he thought.

“Jack, we’re so glad you’re here—”

“How did I—?” he jack-knifed upward, then swayed from the rush of dizziness. When Tooth’s hands braced his shoulders back, his head still lolled forward. “ _What_ —”

A hacking cough, long and hard, with such ferocity that it dragged him into silence. The inside of his throat felt raw and dry and cracked. His eyes were watering, and he was only just beginning to notice the pounding ache in his skull. He felt like he’d woken up too early.

_Was I asleep?_

“Drink this,” Tooth hushed, holding his shoulders and reaching for a goblet of something that Bunny passed to her. “It should help.”

“What is it?” he tried to ask, but at the second wave of desperate coughing, Tooth helped to tilt the bright liquid into his mouth, and he drank without further complaint.

“How…?” Jack pushed away the goblet, but Toothiana didn’t let it travel far. She kept it on the nearby desk as she held an arm around him and gripped tighter, even when he jostled her, when he hunched over from the overwhelming weight on his shoulders. “Was I sleeping?”

No one answered him.

Jack, who had been trying to gently bat away Toothiana’s coddling hands, stilled where he sat on the chaise. “Was I?” he croaked. “How?”

Toothiana’s maps had been moved closer to the place where he lay. Her desk was resting just a short distance from where they all huddled now, as was a small, fluttering battalion of deeply concerned tooth fairies, all directed towards him. In fact, everything seemed to be oriented around this particular space in the palace where Jack was kept, with the harsh burn of soft light and the throbbing in his head—

“How long was I out for?”

The feeling of Toothiana’s hands starting to slip away sent a spike of alarm through him, sent him careening to the side, almost off the chaise. Bunny’s hand steadied his shoulder, but it felt _too warm_ , too big, and he clutched onto Toothiana’s tighter, grounding her in his space. “Where’s North?” he asked, his mind beginning to race, ready to split down the middle. “Where’s Sandy?”

“Frost… _Listen_. We had—”

“North is conducting some damage control,” Tooth interrupted gently, speaking too fast. She was squeezing Jack’s hands like _he_ might try to run away. The ache in his head grew sharper, the sensation louder, like his head was filling up, growing too heavy for his body. “There was a lot that happened after Pitch’s… _announcement_ and…” His forehead fell to their clasped hands, maybe, loud and soft, and the pounding was his breathing was the pounding was the weight— “North is helping to tie all the loose ends together. _He’s—_ ”

Jack didn’t hear. Flashes of images and emotions stirred behinds his closed eyes— _flaking paint, dark skies, ocean winds, crystal eyes, firelight, candlelight,_ blue _light_ —

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“ _Where’s Elsa?_ ”

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. * * * .

No one answered him.

But by then the broken shards of Memories  
had pieces themselves together,  
and no one needed to.

. * * * .

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. * * * .  


Hours later ( _or maybe only mere minutes, mere seconds, a whole day, a blink of eternity_ ) Jack stared at his empty hands. He wondered what might happen if he focused on them long enough. Would they ice over, snow-pale and glacier-blue? What would happen to his veins? Royal blue turned navy dark, turned black like Shadows, turned white and barren and useless like everything else?

“Jack,” Toothiana murmured, but kept her hands to herself. She had run out of things to say. Explanations, condolences, promises—all useless.

“Don't.” On a whim, Jack slid his thumbs against his fingers, feeling the texture of his skin. Clenched them into fists. Then, “When Pitch comes back—”

“He won't,” Toothiana firmly declared, _again and again and again,_ then tried to gentle her tone. “Not the way you think.”

“It's _him,_ Tooth. He did something to her. He—he messed with her _head_. He’s the one who—”

“Jack,” Toothiana whispered. “He’s not.”

But he had to be. He _had_ to be, because if it wasn’t Pitch’s fault— _if he wasn't the cause, the catalyst_ —then it meant that Elsa was suffering for nothing, by her own hand.

Her own choice.

“It's him,” he whispered over and over, head falling into his shaking hands, his trembling body. “It’s because of him. He did this. It’s his fault, his—”

But Jack didn’t know what to believe, anymore.

**.**

**.**

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**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

. * * * .

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“So where is she?” Jack dared, gritty and raw and bruised inside, all over. He had yet to leave this room, yet to stand from this chaise. His limbs still didn’t feel entirely like his limbs yet. “How… how is she?”

He hadn't been told any answers. They kept avoiding it, skirting the topic, dancing around the reality. Jack was sick to his stomach.

But Toothiana had left to attend the maps, had switched off with Bunny and left them both to stare each other down like statues.

“I'm fine,” Jack gritted out, glaring with all that he had. His eyes stung. His throat was cracked.

“You're not,” Bunny replied, both soft and severe. “But we can pretend, if that's what you want.”

“I want to know where Elsa is,” demanded Jack, still raw. “What’s happening.”

“Are you ready for the truth?” Bunny gently asked. “Or do you want to keep pretending?”

“Don't coddle me,” Jack snarled.

Bunny bought himself some time by staring at the floor.  “You'll see for yourself soon enough,” he stated, flat and listless. “Until then… there's honestly not much I can tell you.”

“Can’t—or won’t?”

Bunny pursed his lips.

“Can’t,” he said, at last.

Agitation rippled through Jack. In a swift flash of movement, he was standing, swaying, reaching for his staff. “I can't wait here anymore,” Jack swiped at Bunny’s placating hands, and nearly fell over. “I should be in _Arendelle_.”

“You should be _recovering_ ,” Bunny insisted fiercely, the way he might try to calm one of his raging rock-creatures, or butt heads with North. It pissed him off. “This ain't no ordinary nap, kid. Your movements aren't up to speed.”

“They're fine,” Jack bit out, leaning heavily against his staff and patting down his pockets for the glass-link to the magic portals with one hand. “I need to go _fix_ this—”

“Jack, there’s more to what’s happening than just what you’ve seen!” Bunny hissed. “Pitch is getting ballsier, and now that the kids are back on _board_ —”

“What the hell?” Jack’s fist clenched inside of his empty hoodie pocket. He stumbled, rounding on Bunny, who stared at him with wide-open, expectant eyes. “Where the hell is my snow globe?"

For a moment, Jack almost recognized the flash of emotion in Bunny’s eyes. ( _Disappointment_ , he thought, but it was gone before he knew it—)

Bunny’s face was blank and his voice was bizarrely disapproving. “The enchantment cracked when Pitch slammed you to the wall,” Bunny flatly replied. “It’s not going to be working for a while yet. For you, or anybody else.”

Jack’s head pounded. “So where’s yours?”

Bunny gaped. “Mate,” he said slowly, with a gaze that cut right through him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t, _what_?”

Bunny stalked towards him, body tall and tense and tight, but eyes sharp with an unnameable panic. “Stop flying off the handle and _think_ for a second! You wanna see Arendelle yourself, that’s—that’s fine, but _wait_ until the rest of Sandy’s magic is out of you, all right? Just another day or two. You shouldn’t even be up yet!” Bunny shouted over Jack’s disgusted scoff. “If you leave now—”

“Either you open the portal,” Jack warned, “Or I fly outta here and steal one from the shop box, _alone_ , before you can even raise so much as a claw to stop me.”

Bunny glared down at him. There was bravado in his voice, but the unease didn’t leave his eyes. ( _The whole package_ , Jack thought.  _The Pooka Trinity: disappointment, disapproval… and resignation_.)

“You sure that’s a challenge you wanna stir up, mate?” Bunny challenged. “After two days of enchanted sleep?”

“Your call.”

Jack refused to waver, even when Bunny’s eyes glanced down to the shake in his grip or the tremble in his knees. He resisted the urge to float; kept his feet planted firmly on the ground.

“Fine,” Bunny said at last, though Jack couldn’t see past the anxiety well enough to appreciate the meager victory. “But we wait for Sandy, at least,” and his tone brooked no argument. “Just another hour.”

Jack’s heels dug deeper into the floor. “Why?”

“Because,” whispered Bunny, hollow. “You weren’t the only one put asleep.”

. * * * .  


The hour turned slowly, the palace walls glittering with ombre gold in the vibrant streaks of a majestic sunset, and all the while Jack struggled to breathe.

He was so caught up in staring at the dying sunlight that he almost didn’t recognize the sand for what it was. Sandy stood before him, short and curious and concerned in the open space between Jack’s bare feet, and Jack’s elbows jilted off of his bent knees as he snapped his head to look up at him.

 _You’re awake_ , he stared down at him, sad eyes, severe frown.

Jack swallowed the sarcastic remark—it was automatic, instinctive, and meant nothing. “I want to go to Arendelle.”

_Of course._

. * * * .  


Toothiana insisted that she go with them, but Bunny whispered something that convinced her to stay. She made sure Bunny had a canister in his belt of that same strange liquid she made Jack drink before. He didn’t know what it was, but it helped the headache some, and the fact that they had a bottle of it with them seemed to be making Toothiana less quietly frantic.

Sandy’s portal was much the same as Jack’s, if not a bit more prone to sand-dust; Jack shielded his eyes against the particles as they slipped through time and space, then lost his breath as they tumbled into open sea air. It was night, and all the world was black.

The window curtains and shopfronts, the shipyard and castle gates. Off from a distance, Jack could see the royal flags held at half-mast, the tiny flickering flames of two candles for every household. Jack’s chest seized.

“Frost,” Bunny started, uncertain.

They stared at the long stretch before them, darkened waves and dimmed candlelight, and said nothing else.  


. * * * .

The window was closed, but unlocked.

Jack stared at the crack of space the movement created, abruptly overcome with a sense of deja vú: the window, ajar; the two candles, burning low in the glow of a hearth fire that had not been stoked for at least an hour.

(The soft glow had been such a stark relief in the harshness of his panic, before; now the embers felt cold, and too quiet, and surreal.)

He opened the window wider before either Bunny or Sandy had a chance to speak out. He did not let himself land onto the floor, and he kept his staff still in hand, kept himself turned towards the window or the fire because he was still watching for the others to enter the room behind him, because he knew exactly what he was going to see once he turned around, because once his feet planted onto the floor it might make it real. After so much fuss, Jack was still not ready to face what he’d traveled all this way to see for himself.

Just the sight of Sandy’s expression as he gazed his golden eyes towards the bed was enough to make Jack’s knees go weak. It hurt already. It hurt too much.

“Ah,” said Bunny, more of a sound than an actual word, but Jack’s head dropped at the force of the emotion behind it, and when he raised his face it was towards the four-post bed with the thick mountains of blankets, and the sleep-enchanted girl lying in repose beneath them. The ground rose up to meet him, and he _sank_ , deeper— _trying to swallow him_ —until his feet had found something cold, flat, and unforgiving.

The staff dragged along the floor— _his feet, his heart, everything slow and lumbering_ —until Jack was at her bedside. Her braid was freshly twisted by an expert hand… not as precise as her own would have been, but enough to remain true to the shape and length of it. Her gloves, today, were a light blue. He’d never seen them before.

“What will happen if I try to touch her?” he whispered, then had half a mind to try it for himself. Just to see.

He could feel Bunny coming up beside him. “Best not to,” he offered softly, like it pained him to say it. It probably did. ( _He knew it did_.)

Jack stared at the threads of embroidery on her glove. _Rosemaling_.

“If this is a Nightmare,” whispered Jack, “then tell me right now.”

Bunny’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder. He didn't have it in him to shake it away.

 _Your bodies required rest,_ Sandy sighed. _And with such sadness as this… The Deep Sleep is a temporary remedy to protect against Nightmares. But it also staves off Dreams._

_We thought… It was the best kindness we could bestow._

_(Upon both of you,  
_ he did not say.)

Jack tried to swallow.

“Anna sometimes thought she Believed,” he whispered back, the words spilling out fast and hushed. “When she was drunk, or thought she was Dreaming.”

Bunny considered this. “Maybe,” he conceded slowly, at long last. Ever the Guardian of Hope. He was wise and all-knowing, though, and Jack recognized when Bunnymund struggled to keep Hope tethered. “But this isn’t the spell for that.”

“Because she isn’t Dreaming?”

“Not now,” Bunny said softly. “Not yet.”

Jack let his eyes linger over the rise of her cheeks. The shape of her nose. Her lips. “When will she wake up?”

 _Tomorrow_ , said Sandy, dragging Jack’s attention away from the slope of her jaw. _The funeral is the following morning._

The funeral. The funeral. ( _“Anna will attend our parents’ funeral alone, because I can’t—”_ ) “How do we make sure Pitch isn’t going to be there?”

Bunny pinned him with a startled look. “Frost,” he began, stilted and tentative and walking on proverbial eggshells. “That ain’t his game.”

“She’s still vulnerable.”

His mouth gently closed. Jack could feel the silence, but refused to argue anymore. His head was spinning.

“Aye,” Bunny relented, “But Elsa’s fear will keep her contained to this castle. Contained, _period_.” His was voice soft, soothing, infuriating. Truthful and candid and all-knowing, _all-knowing, all—_ “He’s got bigger fish to fry right now than to poke at those he thinks are already in cages. The demon’s got an _agenda_ , and we’re at the top of the list. He won’t do anything that he thinks will waste his time.”

“Like torment Elsa?” Jack gritted. “More than he already has?”

“Her parents are already dead.”

Jack gritted his jaw, jerked his head. _Jesus._

“Her fear of hurting others… well. It will keep her in this room,” Bunny forged on. “The only way he’ll see enjoyment in tormenting her is if he gets her _out_ , and that won’t be happening anytime soon. He has other priorities.”

“So you’re going to give up on her,” Jack accused, thick and low. “More than you already have.”

A long, drawn-out sigh. Tired, and not unkind, though Jack couldn’t appreciate the nuances. “We’re going to give her time,” Bunny explained, heartache rising to the surface. It only fueled the fire in Jack’s churning gut. “Time to mourn, time to grow… She’s been out of our hands for years now.”

 _Not mine_ , but he couldn’t speak.

“Jack,” Bunny tried again. “Unless Pitch Black is involved… this isn’t how our powers work. We don’t work for the sole protection of a single child.” His eyes slide over the the form of the figure on the bed. “Or a single woman.”

Jack’s eyes flicker to his face at the meaning obscured in Bunny’s tone. There was a look in his friend’s eyes. ( _All-knowing. All-knowing, all-knowing, all-knowing, all—_ )

“She was my first Assignment,” he defended, abrupt and forceful, and it wasn’t until the words had slipped out that he realized in his haste he’d said _was_ , not _is._ He felt sick to his stomach.

“She was,” Bunny agreed. “Was that… all?”

Jack glared. He said nothing.

When it was beginning to feel like all the world had condensed down into the span of a single stare—of the tension and truth and unapologetic stream of contact between the gazes of two Guardians, when Jack was beginning to feel breathless from it, from the sinking burgeoning reality and the slow but steadily growing realization of it—Sandy lifted a hand to Jack’s blue sleeve, and caught his attention with a flurry of firelit sand.

 _She dreamed of you,_ Sandy offered. ( _A rare, unexpected boon; a broken promise of trust and privacy and confidentiality and an Oath; a clue to just how few secrets Jack truly had to keep; a pointless apology_.) Pointless, pointless, pointless.

Jack swallowed, his throat hot and thick and sharp. “And now she doesn’t Dream of anything.”

Bunny sighed, everything heavy, and shook his head. “Only you, Frost,” he muttered, like a curse. Like a very lost friend. _This could only happen to you._  
  


. * * * .

Instead of hosting a ball, Arendelle would hold a funeral.

It did not occur to Jack until the final hour before the dawn, after a long night of dread-filled silence and pretending that the others weren’t there in the room with him. (Pretending that they didn’t know, that Elsa was only asleep, that everything would go back to the way it was, messy but livable, _breathable_ —)

Anna’s introductory ball: delayed, in order to properly honor the memory of the King and Queen and to mourn their passing; cancelled, because Elsa was the ruler now, and _where in the world would she find the time or the energy for the possibility of hosting hundreds of visitors in due celebration of her sister’s introduction to society?_ How could they possibly introduce Anna _now_? What would happen to Anna? What would happen to their trade, to their alliances? ( _To Anna, oh god, poor Anna_ —) How could anyone expect them to have a party (have a _plan_ ), how long would this take, how long would they need? _(Don’t they know how much they’ve lost?_ _What they’ve been through?_ ) Elsa was going to have to mourn for her parents and mourn for her sister and protect her powers and hide from her people and rule a kingdom and survive and be strong and be wise and be calm and be fair and be—

Queen.

. * * * .  
  


It could have been either the well-meaning looks or the too-familiar crackle of Elsa’s hearth, or the sheer, impossible torture of sitting at Elsa’s distant window and purposefully avoiding the seat Bunny and Sandy had left empty near where they sat at her bedside, but sometime in the earliest part of the morning, Jack decided to visit Anna.

It was so much easier, and so much harder.

She was still asleep when Jack slipped inside her room, and Jack felt oddly grateful for it. ( _Has Sandy gotten to you too?_ he wondered, and decided, staring at the Princess’ peaceful face, that perhaps an overdue _thank you_ was in order.) From the moment he entered the room, it was clear that Jack’s revelation for the future of Arendelle was much fresher than hers: a simple, elegant black outfit was draped on the mannequin nearest the door, something in the style and patterns of Arendelle’s culture and customs. Things that Jack had come to know so carefully, things about which he still had so much yet to learn.

Anna’s ball gown was hung in sheer, protective casing and placed in the very deepest cavity of her wardrobe.

Another time, then.

  
. * * * .  
  


When Jack returned to Elsa’s chambers a little less than an hour later, he was expecting Bunny and Sandy to still be there.

He did not expect Elsa to be awake.

. * * * .  
  


Before Jack had a family, or a purpose, or a story— _when he only had a name, and a staff, and the light of the Moon_ —he awoke from an ice-sealed pond of winter chill and freshly-granted life, and danced under the stars over an ever-changing stage of fast-curling frost. That night, he began to learn the language of the winds, and met the storms and the sky and the snow. He learned that he was alone.

That night, he spent hours roaming a nearby village, calling endlessly—always, _always_ the same blue light, the same disorienting pain, the same panic-inducing sensation of displacement, of uncertainty, of unnameable, unforgivable loss. He traveled for years, visiting villages and towns, and villages that turned into towns, towns to cities, cities to burgeoning metropolises, to all the world he’d been thrown into, whatever he was. But that first night, he _learned_ , or he started to, and the most important things he learned were that there was magic and pain in the world, both, that many humans chose to see one and not the other ( _he wasn’t human, what was he, what_ was _he_ ), that calling out for help didn’t mean anything, not if they couldn’t hear you.

More than three hundred years later, and Jack still tried.

 

. * * * .

( _oh_ —)  
Jack tried.  
  
. * * * .

 


	209. - going mad -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _2/4/16_.

 

. * * * . 

_(was)_

_\- going mad -_

_(with it)_  

. * * * .

 

As usual, Elsa was right.

She did not attend her parents’ funeral.

“ _Elsa_?” he could hear Anna’s trembling voice from the other side of the door. “ _Please, I know you’re in there_.”

(Anna knocked, Elsa kept herself locked away, and Jack rested his temple against the door near her shoulder, at her ear, and watched her hands silently shake, watched as she sat alone in a cold room streaked jagged with grief and loss and frozen, suspended snowflakes.)

Jack had stopped calling out. He tried whispers, instead.

Elsa didn’t say anything at all. 

. * * * .

Two days after the introductory ball was forfeited to the gray of a funeral, Jack was summoned back to the North Pole. He was very close to not showing up at all.

Until Bunny arrived to personally lure him in with the promise of something new and desperately needed: a thread of Hope with the distinct ring of _possibility_.

He wouldn’t breathe a word of it until Jack had landed firmly in the workshop, which pissed him off as much as it settled his nerves—almost to the point where he got pissed off all over again. The loud and colorful bustle of the productive workshop was worlds away from the chilling silence of Elsa’s lonely rooms. Jack could feel himself breathe again, which, of course, Jack knew was nothing less than completely intentional.

( _All-knowing bastard_.)

“So what’s this about, then?” Jack crossed his arms and glared, still on-edge and tense about the wave of _calm_ and _relief_ and _freedom_ that had pushed into his skin on the flight over. It rankled, and it hurt, and it made him very, very worried. “I need to get back.”

“What you need,” Bunny cryptically began, “is to take a look at this.” And then he handed Jack a scroll with long, flowing lines, with an endless collection of thoughts and questions and notes and theories and research, so complicated and overlapping and thick with implication that Jack couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“What is it?”

To Jack’s confusion, Bunny actually almost smiled.

“Well. After hearing about Anna’s, ah, _uninhibited_ ‘temporary Belief’, I gotta admit that it sparked a bit of… scholarly intrigue.” Bunny unrolled the parchment further, revealing a set of diagrams so unknown to Jack that he couldn’t even decipher shapes, or words. “You might have only mentioned it because you didn’t realize what you were saying—you sure ain’t ever mentioned it before—but I was… curious. In spite of myself.

“So when I had a moment to think, I did, and when I’d thought about it some more, I went to Tooth to investigate and discuss and… this is it.”

Jack stared down at the page. It was like another language. _Pooka?_ Maybe the thoughts of all-knowing beings was another language—another set of languages—all its own. Maybe it was everything. His head was spinning from it, from the desire to be able to understand it, more than any book or message he’d ever seen before. ( _More than Elsa’s favorite fairy tales or Henrik’s letters or the stupid trade treaties that stole Elsa away for two whole winter afternoons in her seventeenth year—_ )

“ _What is it_?” Jack repeated, shaken, and ignored the way his voice cracked. 

Bunny worded his thoughts very carefully, for Jack. “It’s a discussion,” he explained. “It’s a theory, or the start of one. It’s a possible set of solutions to the very complicated nuances within the question of someone’s Belief, or rather—Anna’s particular brand of so-called _temporary_ Belief.”

Jack stared up at Bunny, confused and alarmed.

“All right, better yet… Think of it as a consideration of what might make one’s, ah… personal _belief_ of their Belief any different from what we know as true, genuine, authentic, magical Belief.” Bunny’s eyes actually fucking twinkled. “It’s kind of a hard line to draw, eh?”

He felt his eyes go wide, and his mouth go very, very dry. The scroll wrinkled in his hands. “Is something like that even possible?” Jack half-whispered.

Bunny lifted a wry, challenging brow. “I don't know—is it possible for an Assignment to go on Believing for ten years past her due?”

Jack bit his cheek. It stung.

“We’re not working with absolutes, here, y’know,” Bunny stated dryly. “You should know: you're a fucking exception at every turn.”

“ _They_ are,” Jack corrected flatly, and glared at the nonsense on the scroll. Beautiful, ugly nonsense. “Not me.”

“Well… however you want to look at it, it is what it is. The humans you hung around as kids have grown into adults who aren't really sure what to Believe, or when to Doubt it. It's… not necessarily a bad thing.”

“So you're saying Anna could…” _What?_ “ _Believe_ again? Like— _actually_ Believe? Like…” _Oh. That’s right._ “Like… Jamie and the others—apparently?”

“You’ll see them soon enough, I’m sure,” Bunny grinned, eyes glinting. “And I’m saying Anna might already _believe_ she can Believe.” A pause. “Which may or may not be the same thing. At least sometimes. Maybe. _Maybe_ ,” he repeated. Firm. Hopeful. Cautious. “No promises."

Jack licked his lips, curious.

“Huh.” 

. * * * .  


_Anna_ , Jack thought. If Anna Believed then maybe she could make Elsa Believe again, and if _Elsa_ Believed then Jack could help Anna regain her Memories, and _Anna_ could help _Jack_ help _Elsa_ —

But it turned out that Anna was not much for Hope and Believing in those days. For the first few weeks directly after the funeral, she adopted her old behavioral patterns of winding up outside her sister’s door in the middle of the night. Sometimes she fell asleep there. Sometimes she raged and cursed and pounded her fists on the wood, until paint and mind and heart and sanity splintered alike.  
  
(Jackie and Jax and Jacqueline all fretted. _What about the snow days?_ they asked with their dark, worried eyes. _Where have you been? Where should we go?_ )  
  
But the closer Anna wanted to be to her sister, the more distant the sisters became. Anna, at least, at last, seemed to realize that they were all they had left. She seemed as determined and as heartbroken and as unsure of how to fix their family as ever, and Elsa had never been so closed off, so aloof. Jack didn't know how to break through.

  
(“ _Jamie has been asking about you,”_ Toothiana pleaded. _“He’s so worried that you’re angry with him that he’s almost sick with it. He wants to make it up to you, and he’s doing all that he can to show you how sorry he is, and how much he still cares, but you’re never around to see it.”  
__“I’ll get there eventually. There are just other things that need to happen first.”  
__“Jack—”  
__“Tooth.”  
__“What am I supposed to keep telling him? He couldn’t stop himself from growing up—it’s not his fault, Jack. He couldn’t control his Doubt, but now he’s back, and he_ Believes, _Jack. It might not be enough to ease your hurt completely, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it, and it’s more than we’ve ever, ever gotten before. Isn’t_ that _enough? You fought so hard for him to get to this point! My powers are based in the past, Jack, my words can only help offer Hope and strength for the future, and only for so long after so much strife. Can’t you—I don’t know, can’t you just give me some sort of message to take back to him? Something to show him that it will be okay? Something like—“  
__“What? A sign?”_ ) 

  
Little by little, Anna was finding her light in a brand new world of darkness. By the third month, she found her way back to the gallery, and somber thoughts turned to gentle humming. On an unusually gray day, the cooks baked lemon tarts at her request, and she enjoyed them in the small patches of sunshine that pierced through the clouds. Anna collected smiles and counted sweet-smelling summer breezes like gifts, each one its own small victory. 

As autumn crept closer, Anna found her voice. Once more the halls of Arendelle filled with singing— _softly, at first, in little lullabies_ —and occasional laughter, especially when Anna found her way down to the kitchens. She still look little enjoyment in her diplomacy lessons, but she no longer complained. ( _“Would you be proud, Mama?”_ she whispered to the portrait, still shrouded and veiled, though perhaps not for much longer.) Anna found the old swing she used to play on when she was a child—the one she wasn’t _supposed_ to touch, it belonged to the workers—and dredged her fondest Memories up through the woodwork. They came more easily than she remembered.

Winter crept closer, and Arendelle grew colder, and Elsa didn’t Believe.

It occurred to Jack only at the beginning of October that although Elsa couldn’t ( _wouldn’t_ ) see him, she still saw his magic just fine. He’d let a small flurry slip out in a fit of frustration, and at the sight of her wide eyes and rapt attention, Jack impulsively jumped at the chance to keep it. ( _A sign_ , he thought, _just a small one—_ ) But the only magic Elsa knew was her own, and Jack’s display only triggered her panic. It ended with both of them on the floor, sobbing, until Jack found the strength to leave. He returned the next morning. 

The day Elsa found her journals hidden away in the locked drawer of her desk was the day that Jack returned to Antarctica with bloodied knuckles, throat raw and burning. ( _So many pages. So many pages,_

 _into the fire—_ )

( _“Jack… when a child stops Believing naturally, a Guardian just simply… fades. The child can’t remember that they’ve ever spoken, or that they’d learned anything from them in particular. They only know that they Believed, and that their friend, their Guardian was only a character in a legend or a story. A myth. The problem here is that Elsa_ did _Believe, much longer than anyone else ever has. She clung to that Belief for years—she built much of her identity on it, around it. It was a huge part of who she was and what she’d accomplished, what she’d learned and how she’d played. How she’d thought.”  
__“What… what are you saying?”  
__“When… when she stopped Believing, she… ripped herself away from it. There was… quite a lot of damage left behind. She remembers_ you _clearly, and all of your experiences, which is—which has never quite happened in this way, before. But without the assurance of your existence, all of her unaltered Memories—”  
__“She thinks… Elsa thinks she’s losing her mind.”  
__“I’m so sorry, Jack. Without the Belief to support her Memories, all her years with you are… confusing. She’s tearing herself apart over the dissonance.”  
__“So… what you’re telling me… is that… is that it made things worse.”  
__“Jack—“  
__“She would have been better off never knowing me. I… I ruined it.”  
__“_ Jack _—”  
__“I have to fix it, Tooth! I have to. I made this mess—like fucking always—like, fuck you, Jack Frost, can’t you do something without fucking it up, just for fucking once in your stupid, fucked up life?”  
__“Jack, enough!”  
__“It’s my fault that Elsa’s so much worse off than she should be—“_ Jack snarled. “ _And I’m not gonna let her get any worse.”_ )  
  


The Guardians drafted battle plans and strategy charts. Toothiana regained some color in her cheeks, and a few of her fairies took up constant watch and companionship of the newly-minted Burgess Believers. North wrote to Jamie through the typewriter frequently. Each of the Big Four had paid their visits early on, and continued to pay them often. Toothiana tried to warn Jamie against drinking too much coffee. (Or at least to drink plenty of water in between cups. _And no sugar!_ ) The Burgess young adults were brimming with Hope, and Wonder, looking back on fond Memories and enjoying pleasant Dreams; most of it was their own doing, of course, sans Guardian-gifted direction and magic, through years of their own practice and rekindled skill. The Guardians were bursting with pride. Something, at last, was turning in their favor.  
  


( _“The Burgess crew-mates are rather enjoying themselves,”_ Bunny hinted. _“Have you swung down, by any chance?”  
__“Not yet.”  
__“You know… They started their own snowball fight in the park the other day. Just for the wild hell of it. Early Saturday morning, got all the little kids all riled up w’them. It was a hell of a sight.”  
__“I bet.”  
__“Frost,”_ Bunny gently begged, “ _They’re calling for you, mate.”  
__“I’ll get there.”)_    
  
  
Elsa was as painfully as beautiful as ever, but so quiet, _so quiet_ , and so formal, always. She and Anna occasionally passed by one another in the halls. It was jarring, so unusual— _so many years!_ To think that Anna and Elsa saw one another so often now, now that everything was falling to pieces. Elsa’s door remained closed, but unlocked, yet Anna had learned once again not to knock. They were strangers living in the same castle, wanting nothing more than to regain what they’d once had, both believing it to be completely, utterly impossible. Jack Frost was going mad with it.

One afternoon, there was a pond that could have used a little extra frost. Jack never quite found the time to make it back to give the surface an extra coat, and after a sledding ride gone wrong, a little boy slid down the steep bank leading to the pond, slid across the thin ice, and fell in. 

Four minutes later, he died.

. * * * .

 

 


	210. - little less -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _2/10/16._

 

. * * * .  


_(a)  
-little less -_

(human)  


. * * * .

 

After two hours of valiant, unrelenting optimism, Jamie’s boot sunk fast and heavy into an unexpected puddle of slush. He picked up his foot from the mix of rain and snow and salt, only to realize that some of it was starting to drip down the ankle seam of his jeans. He finally allowed himself to acknowledge reality for what it was: a day which forever would be known as a day that Should Have Been a Motherfucking Snow Day.

It wasn’t cold enough to let the snow stick to the ground outright, but also not warm enough to make it melt completely; what resulted was a very complicated decision-making responsibility for school superintendents and corporate business offices alike ( _all right, less so on the corporate_ ), and a very trying work commute for all. He’d been walking forever, and his lab was still a good ten minutes away.

Jamie trudged onward onto the sidewalk, hunching his shoulders against sharp wind and fat, wet snowflakes. He faced forward, stuffed his mittened hands into his pockets, and continuously kept close watch of every step in front of him. His glare was a private, determined rally against the winter storm.

“This blows,” he muttered, and hoped that no one heard him.

As he left the town center and meandered his way through the narrowing main streets, the traffic died down. People were either done dropping their kids off at the nearby schools or were finally making their way to work, and as a result the plows had the luxury of emptier streets in which to push around their heaps of dirty, salty mix. Jamie tried not to think about his wet socks.

It was nearly nine in the morning, but the street lamps were still on, soft yellow lights against a gray-white sky, against an endless collection of snow-covered rooftops, treetops, and sidewalks. Cars slowly inched by with their gleaming headlights and their useless windshield wipers, cautiously rolling by Jamie’s own snail-like pace. After a while, it started to feel like the cars were silently judging him as they passed, like it was _his_ fault that he was out walking in the sludge while they were enjoying their dashboard heat and dry ankles. Like he might suddenly jump out in front of one of the moving vehicles andscream, ‘ _Take me! Bring me inside! I demand to use your seat warmers!’_

Not that he would. He might have _thought_ about it once or twice in the last few minutes, but—

His wet boot hit a slick patch of ice and he went down, tailbone colliding sharply with wet, slippery sidewalk. It sucked.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he groaned loudly, but it got lost in the white noise of an empty side street. Of all the spots. Of all the day and all the storms, this is what Jamie got for his dedication to academia. To _science_. “Mothereffing _fiddlesticks_.”

“That’s a new one.”

Great, some asshole behind him saw him bite it apparently, and now had the decency to rub it in his face. Weren’t they all supposed to be suffering through this storm together? _So much for kindred spirits_.

Jamie squinted and started the process of finding a way up onto his feet. “What?” he scoffed, easing onto a knee and otherwise mostly trying to ignore his one-man audience. “Falling into an icy puddle? Yeah, that’s real novel for winter, man.”

“Nah,” said the stranger, and something was beginning to tell Jamie that something was Very Unusual. “I meant your vocabulary.”

Sensation prickled at the back of Jamie’s throat. He swiveled on his slippery heels before he could think too deeply, and by the time he recognized the well of anxiety and anticipation bubbling in his stomach he’d already turned around and discovered that no one was actually there. The white noise intensified.

“Yeah?” he forced himself to say, eyes darting in confusion and suspicion around the empty awnings and darkened shopfronts along the street. He was agitated, and it reflected in his voice. “The hell you know about my vocabulary?”

A dry chuckle— _familiar_ —but sharp and cold, not like the vague warmth that pulled at his memory. It took a split second for Jamie to realize that he wasn’t being laughed at; Jamie didn’t find anything funny about this, and neither did the guy who Jamie suddenly noticed on top of the nearby mailbox, perched over icy, slippery metal with a long, icy staff in hand, bare-footed and white-haired and blue-eyed and blue-hooded, just like he remembered him. Jamie stared.

“Not much, admittedly,” said the boy, wry and crisp with a smirk. _So_ familiar, but it still didn’t click, it still didn’t fully connect on its own—not until the young man on the mailbox slanted a brow and shifted a careless head tilt at Jamie’s gaping silence ( _that_ look, that expression) and all of the fragments snapped together.

“Jack Frost,” said Jamie, as the last piece slid into place.

The boy looked at him across the short distance from the post box, crouched on bare feet and elbows hooked into thighs. He looked like he was straight out of his storybook, with pale skin and frosty trails over his sweatshirt. Jamie had been looking for him for so long, he almost didn’t recognize him. ( _He almost didn’t recognize him, anyway_.) Jamie had always remembered Jack as so much…

Older.

But maybe that wasn’t fair. Even if Jack Frost hadn’t _physically_ aged a day since the night he’d seen him last, once Jamie actually started looking closely… 

Jamie gaped up at the dark circles beneath keen eyes, at the blue tinge of veins beneath strangely translucent skin. ( _Is this what happens to Guardians after they become Guardians?_ Jamie wondered.) There was something in Jack’s eyes that spoke of three hundred years in a way that hadn’t before, like Jack had seen a little bit more of eternity and immortality in the last ten, fifteen years or so—all while Jamie was left unawares.

“You gonna just stay there?”

Jamie’s gaze dropped down to where was still half-crouched uncomfortably in the snow. He hadn’t realized.

He lifted his arms from his legs and raised himself to his full height, not letting his eyes stray away from Jack Frost for a second ( _because what if he_ did _and they never quite found him again?_ ) which was a really bad idea, in retrospect, because it meant that Jamie slipped and fell into the snow and pavement all over again.

Jack Frost gave a cutting laugh, too sharp for so much hard-packed snow and unforgiving concrete. Jamie rubbed his tender tailbone and glared while Jack, unfazed, planted the end of his staff into a mound of snow below the dropbox and leaned leisurely against the icy wood. His enjoyment of watching Jamie fall on his ass was too sharp, too keen to be entirely in good fun.

“I don’t remember you being this much of a klutz,” Jack observed, staring down with great interest.

“Yeah, well,” Jamie huffed, glaring with real force. “I don’t remember you being this much of a dick.”

Jack blinked, surprised. Jamie quickly wondered if there were any dire consequences to royally pissing off and or insulting a Guardian (namely: having them disappear on you for another decade or so), but then Jack laughed—still sharp, but maybe genuine this time.

“Sorry, kid,” he chuckled, his wry smile just a little too pointed. “It’s nothing personal.”

Then he reached a hand down and helped Jamie to his feet.

Jamie stood to his full height, staring down at where their hands connected, wondering if Jack felt just as disoriented as he did. Jack’s hands were freezing; Jamie hadn’t noticed, as a kid, just how cold Jack was or how blue his veins were. ( _When was the last time I saw you?_ Jamie thought, throat forming a hardened lump. _Where have you been?_ ) He was so preoccupied with the fact that he was _here_ (that he was _really_ here and not just some familiar, legendary, stress-soaked name mentioned by Tooth or North or Bunny or Sandy whenever they popped in for a check-in or a spontaneous visit or a convenient plate of freshly-baked cookies) that Jamie didn’t realize something that should have been glaring at him in the face.

“I’m taller than you now,” Jamie blurted, astounded, and felt his stomach drop as Jack distinctly flinched.

“Yeah, rub it in, why don’t you,” Jack acknowledged flatly. Jamie was all ready to apologize again, except it sounded like Jack was willing to play it off… if not without a strong dose of self-deprecative humor. Just as Jamie was deciding that he would definitely rather not dig himself an even deeper hole, Jack gently pulled his hand away from their grip. Jamie tried to quell his sudden surge of panic.

“Sorry,” he added hastily. “I really didn’t mean… I don’t know why I said that.” He felt awkward in the contemplative silence, so he added, “I promise I didn’t actually grow up into a jerk.”

A strange expression crossed Jack’s face, and Jamie stamped down the thousands of questions that rose to the surface. ( _Are you proud of me?_ he wanted to ask. _How could I not have known that you were watching over me, all this time? Why didn’t you reach out to me earlier—send me a sign? I would have—_ )

“Nah,” Jack dismissed easily, with a carefreeness that wasn’t really carefree, but was nostalgic enough to make Jamie’s stomach hurt with guilt and determination and too many unasked questions. Jack shrugged a single shoulder, not entirely unabashed, not entirely apologetic, and warned, “I’m sorry if I did, though.”

The grin on Jack’s face made Jamie’s chest hurt; the whole sight of him made Jamie’s chest hurt. He looked so much… _younger_ than Jamie remembered, but he also seemed so much older than the guy who led him into battle against the Bogeyman however many years ago. So much sharper and more angled, cut with crisper lines and harder edges. Everything about him seemed more clear-cut, more fierce, more exhausted. More rigid and tense and absolutely none of these things at all.

“What happened to you?” Jamie asked. He hadn’t meant to whisper it, but he did.

Jack didn’t answer him.

Jack looked at him for a long time, but he didn’t answer. And then he said, “Pitch is going to make a move on at least two of the worlds within the next month or so. We need you to be ready.”

Jamie stared at Jack, open-mouthed. “Ready? Like—for what?”

Jack’s mouth dropped open, the expression in his clear eyes turning dry and exasperated. “You haven’t been training with North?”

“For _what_?”

Jack’s gaze turned skyward, and his whole jaw clenched up. He wiped a hand across his eyes, like he was suffering from sort of Guardian-scale headache.

“Well—fine. Guess I should have seen that coming,” he groaned, then let out an abrupt, resounding, “ _Jesus_.” Which—okay, this was a little juvenile, fine, whatever—but it actually sort of startled Jamie to hear his childhood hero drop some legitimate bad language, _okay_? Okay.

Okay.

“Um. I’m sorry, you were hoping that I’d be training for _what_ now?”

Again, Jack didn’t answer outright. Instead he hardened his gaze and said, “Pitch perfected his Memory swipes. He’s attacked the Vaults twice in the last four days, but he’s not as strong as he thought. Not yet, anyway.”

Jamie very purposefully ignored the way his mouth went dry. That explained why Bunny didn’t stop over for carrot cupcakes on Saturday night. “So,” Jamie hazarded, “that’s… good, for now?”

“It means that on top of everything else, he’s turning back to his old ways to increase his power,” Jack corrected, chiding and tense. “He’s upped his rounds of attacking individuals outright, with Fear and Nightmares and the same old story.”

“Well, if it’s the same old story, isn’t that—I don’t know— _also_ good? I mean, we know how to deal with asshole-black sand-version Pitch, and we’re getting better at preventing weirdo-baby tooth-stealing-version Pitch, so if this is just a matter of—”

“He’ll be coming for Sophie next.”

Jamie’s insides went cold.

“What?” Jamie demanded, as those forgotten nerves found their way back to the surface, clawing and tearing. “What are you talking about?”

“At least—that’s Sandy’s theory. Sandy says that an individual doesn’t have to rely on the Golden Dream Sand for Pitch to still mess with their heads and stoke his reputation. The more his legend grows, the more power he gets.”

“But why would he—”

“He’s known about all of you for a while now, now that you’ve found your way back,” Jack’s words all rolled together in Jamie’s head. “He knows you’re strong enough to resist him on your own, and that the others aren’t as vulnerable as they might have been before, so now he’s aiming to take down those who are closest to you.”

Jamie couldn’t breathe. “ _Why?_ ”

“It’s always been personal with Pitch,” said Jack slowly, pragmatic and dark and seared with a quiet, enduring kind of hatred that Jamie didn’t think he would ever really understand. “And you were never really on his good side.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Jack’s grin was crooked, and it wasn’t pleasant. “I’m Jack Frost,” he reminded dryly. “I never joke.”

“Seriously, back the hell up and explain the part where you said that Pitch, like, has it out for me, and is coming after my _sister_.”

“What do you want to know?” Jack actually sounded impatient now. “You ruined his plans fifteen something years ago and he hasn’t forgotten. He couldn’t mess with you before—not directly, anyway—but you’ve been a bona fide Believer for a while now and Pitch calls that more than fair game. If he can’t take it out on you, or your Memories, he’ll take it out on those who matter to you.”

Jamie was startled when Jack pulled out a small snow globe from his sweatshirt pocket and held it out for him. Jamie took it blindly, staring down with uncomprehending confusion at the little tufts of fake snowflakes inside. _Are they fake?_

( _Are they_ real _?_ )

Jack didn’t mince words. “If you haven’t been training, you’re behind. If you haven’t been training _others_ , they’re in danger.”

“What does that _mean_?” Jamie pleaded. “What kind of training? I’ve been looking up all sorts of shit for his weaknesses and possible attack strategies and stuff to help keep us protected—”

“The stories are a start,” Jack cut him off. “But Pitch is fighting nastier. You need to teach Sophie, and your mom, and other people the same skills that protect you.”

“What, like—like fucking _positive thinking?_ What the hell? What kind of—”

“Also. You might actually have to fight.”

“Um… I hope you mean ‘ _with knowledge_ ’.”

Jack Frost’s grin was genuinely amused. “I’ll make sure North stops by.”

Jamie didn’t even want to ask anymore, not yet, but— “What the hell is the snow globe for?”

“Damn, have they not told you _anything_? It’s how you communicate with us, if you’re in trouble. Or how you should, anyway. Now that you actually _have_ one.” Jamie stared down at the glass with newfound appreciation. ( _Wonder,_ he thought absently.) “It’s not quite like ours… I mean, you’re not gonna be jumping planes or portals anytime soon, but think of it like a… I don’t know. A magical cellphone or some shit.”

 _Did you always used to swear this much?_ Jamie wondered, clutching the snow globe tightly in his palm. _Or just not around me—because I was a kid?_ When, exactly, had Jack stop seeing Jamie as a kid?

( _Is it when I stopped Believing?_  
_When did I stop?  
__Because I definitely don’t feel like an adult._ )

“Why me?” Jamie asked suddenly, because he’d wanted to know for years, forever. “Why now?”

“Why, what?” Jack asked, some of that cold causticity returning, that sliver of resentment and indifference, of tolerance and exhaustion and distance. “You’re Jamie,” he said, and Jamie couldn’t help but hear the accusation underneath. “You’re the Last Light.”

“Why didn’t you come earlier?” Jamie demanded, because if Jack was going to start slinging around accusations, then it was his right, too, wasn’t it? He’d waited, and waited, and _waited._ “It’s—it’s been a _year_! North and Bunny and Tooth and Sandy—they all come, all the time, and they always said… They told me something had happened to you, and that you couldn’t come—”( _it’s not your fault, Jamie, it’s not your fault)_ “—but after a while they stopped giving me explanations and I stopped asking for them.” And then, his greatest fear: “I didn’t think you’d come back at all.”

For a long, long while, Jack only stared down at the snow globe in Jamie’s hands.

“You came back as soon as you could,” Jack answered, finally. “And so did I.”

 

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. * * * .

One year, in which Jack grieved and fought and mourned and rallied and lost.

One year later, and Jack was still angry, still breathing, a little more wary, and a little less human.

But he existed.

And he reminded himself every day.

. * * * .  


(He reminded himself with unexpected snow flurries and pristine wintercrest mornings. In fresh blankets of snow, waiting to be trampled upon. For small boots and tiny plastic sleds to trail and trek across; in white-letter text flashing along a red marquee at the bottom of a family’s television, the seven o’clock news, the winter weather advisories and school closings lists; in each signature snowflake, in every wisp of cold, precious breath.)

(He laughed too lowly, smirked too dull. His teeth were sharp but his grins were faint, or worse—they were cutting and sarcastic, jaded without the warmth needed to lighten them. At first he smiled too wide, or not at all, and now it gleamed in his teeth, never reached his eyes.)

(He yelled a lot, in the beginning. He was petty and childish and broken. He called Elsa names, insulted her, lashed out and blamed her in ways he _shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t have_. He lied, and he cried, but he no longer denied it—Elsa was gone. She was real, and she was there, but she was lost and, maybe— _just maybe_ —there were things more important than that.)

(Maybe she didn’t need him as much as he thought she did, and maybe he needed _her_ more than he should have.)

(He wouldn’t forgive, and he wouldn’t forget, but maybe one day he could understand.)  


. * * * .


	211. - crescent wrench -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/15/16_. Happy Belated Pi Day. Also, look, ANOTHER CHAPTER UPDATE THAT TOOK ALMOST A MONTH. I am hoping to nip that in the bud because--guess what--I want to finish this story by the end of the summer. 
> 
> **Beta'd** by the lovely **ABIGAIL** , who--GUESS WHAT--is coming to FUCKING VISIT MEEEEEEEEE THIS WEEEKENDDDDD. [endless screaming]
> 
> ♥

 

 

. * * * .   
  


_\- crescent wrench -_   
  


. * * * .

 

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“Kid,” Jack glowered, and watched as (what he now skillfully recognized as) a crescent wrench was put to further use. “Your aunt is gonna kill you.”

Hiro—the remarkably intelligent, robot-whispering, supposedly-mature-for-his-age super-genius—naturally, did not hear him.

Jack watched as another nut slid into place; amended, “And if she doesn’t, _I_ might.”

“JACK FROST,” shouted his snow globe, which he’d been steadily ignoring for at least seven screws and seven more of Hiro’s questionable decisions. “YOUR REPORT, IT IS LATE.”

Jack barely expended any energy on rolling his eyes, but even that much acknowledgement seemed like a hassle. He slipped the magical snow globe from his pocket and spoke into it without bothering to spare North a glance. “‘Late’ would imply that there was a deadline. I don’t remember any.”

“YOUR REPORT WAS EXPECTED TWO HOURS AGO.”

Which just happened to be right about the time that Hiro got that look in his eye (the one that screamed _trouble_ and _boredom_ and _back-alley bot fights_ ). “A deadline is more of a guideline, isn’t it?”

“FROST,” North’s voice cut through, but couldn’t interrupt Hiro’s tone-deaf mutterings to the noise coming out of the speakers, not one bit. “ _REPORT._ ”

“The reason I haven’t reported is because there’s nothing _to_ report _,”_ Jack couldn’t hold back the sigh, or the groan, the whatever. “He’s at it again, and he actually figured out how to increase the mobility on the thing this afternoon, so it’s only a matter of time before he gets ballsy enough to go after the big Yama Llama Man or the Fujita Ladies—”

“THERE IS A LLAMA?”

“What? No. It’s the name we call—never mind. Forget it. I’m here, all right?” Jack snapped. “Give me a couple of hours, I’ll figure it out.”

“IF YOU SPEND WATCH HOURS AT SAN FRANSOKYO ZOO, YOU LOSE OPPORTUNITY TO WITNESS VITAL CLUES, JACK. THE TURNING POINT—IT IS ALMOST UPON HIM! ALSO… IF AT THE ZOO, MAKE SURE TO SAY HELLO TO—“

“Bye,” Jack stuffed the snow globe in his pocket, scoffing, which then allowed him to see the precise moment that Hiro stood from his chair with that _look_ in his eye: the one that spoke of riding the S Train too late at night to the wrong side of town to—

“ _Shit_ ,” hissed Jack, who flew after Hiro. 

  
. * * * .  
  


“For _ten years_ , I have done the best I could to raise you! Have I been perfect? No. Do I know anything about children? _No_. Should I have picked up a book on parenting? _Probably_! Where was I going with this?” she demanded, more to herself than the two deeply-chagrined boys behind her. Jack would bet ten proverbial bucks that Aunt Cass was definitely dipping into the bakery inventory tonight. “I had a point,” she claimed.

“Sorry.” 

“We love you, Aunt Cass.”

“ _Well, I love you, too!_ ”

Yep. Definitely headed for the bakery.

“Yo,” said Jack Frost, into his snow globe only a few minutes later, as Tadashi ushered an unwilling, stumbling Hiro up the stairs. “I’ll fill you in on the rest later, but the Hamada brothers definitely just spent part of their evening in jail.”

Toothiana’s shock registered even through eons of light and space and energy and a quarter-inch thick shield of magically-fused glass. “ _What?!_ ”

“Later,” Jack couldn’t help but snicker, and pocketed his snow globe just as Tadashi turned on his best pair of Disappointed Eyes.

“You’re going bot-fighting, aren’t you?”

“There’s a fight across town!” Hiro was already packing, one foot always already out the door, his mind always half a mile of ahead of wherever the rest of everyone else was. “If I book, I can still make it!”

 _Here we go again_ , thought Jack, mentally rearing himself up for another long haul of an evening. By the time he got the clench out of his jaw and the grit out of his teeth, he wasn’t sure who he was more frustrated with—North, Hiro, Tadashi, or _Pitch motherfucking Black_ —when Tadashi finally came out and said what they’d all been thinking, all been goddamn wondering every day for however long, “ _When_ are you gonna start doing something with that big brain of yours?”

“ _Bravo_ , Big Brother,” muttered Jack, strolling over a stretch of air above Tadashi’s tidily-made bed, “It only took half a trip to _jail_ to come out and tell it like it is, but—sure, better late than never, I guess.”

Jack was only half-listening to Hiro’s usual complaints about _college_ and _school is too easy_ , people just weren’t on his _level, man_ , the players he hustled were so _gullible,_ blah blah blah, whatever he was grousing about as Tadashi the Inadvertent (Busy Older Brother) Enabler drove them both to a sketchy part of town so Hiro could continue to waste his potential under Jack’s watchful nose, except… except they weren’t driving to a sketchy part of the city?

When the engine cut, Hiro’s voice was decidedly put out. “What are we doing at your _nerd_ school?”

Jack looked at Tadashi, stunned; what _were_ they doing at his nerd school?

(After all of two seconds, Jack Frost saw right through Tadashi’s ploy and was… mildly impressed. Hiro played easily into his brother’s whims, which spoke volumes, and the gears in his head started turning as soon as they set food on the tile, which… made Jack curious about just how often Hiro had at least _wondered_ about following in his brother’s footsteps. Once Hiro put two-and-two together about Professor Callaghan—well.)

(Jack supposed he could lay off Tadashi for one night, and give credit where credit was due.)

“Not bad, Big Bro,” murmured Jack, a touch still suspended in pleasant disbelief, and then he was off, headed straight for Tooth Palace and a long night of patrol. He’d get to the report eventually.

 

. * * * .

 

“Sandy’s covering your patrol.”

Jack, physically taken aback, made sure Toothiana knew _exactly_ how he felt about this. “Who says? It’s Jamie’s run.”

“Yes,” Toothiana slowly hedged, gently fluttering her fingers over the map on the table—the painted fabric was rolled flat and long over the table, sparkling and shimmering with lights, some of which were brightly-colored—and didn’t actually look at him when she said, “I’ve explained the situation to Jamie personally. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Um, he’d do plenty of worrying about it, thank you. “Seriously? I only just got the kid to lighten up around me like four months ago, after, like, a _billion_ years, and now you’re having me blow him off?” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“It’s something we should talk about,” Toothiana replied, annoyingly vague, “but for once you actually showed up early tonight, so I’m waiting for Bunny to get here.” 

“Look—is he actually involved in this at all, whatever it is, or is he just gonna be here, like, for moral support? Because if all we’re waiting for is another Guardian to be on board, then save it, because I still have the Hamada report to take care of, and apparently now I’m gonna have to come up with a way to make this up to Jamie so he doesn’t start hating me again—”

“He doesn’t _hate_ you! For the last time, it’s not true, and every time you say it, you only—”

“Tooth,” he cut her off, thinking of timezones and _errands_ , and trying to somehow squeeze in visits to _all_ of the (Burgess) Believers between the multiple timezones. “I appreciate the consideration, but I’m busy. I’ve got some stupid documentation to file, gotta go check on Sophie’s Memory Box in the Vault to figure out which other childhood friends are Potential Grown-Up Believers, still have to check-in with the J-Team before central midnight—or Jax will _not_ be pleased—not to mention _flossing_ , so like. Fill me in here.”

Toothiana was pursing her lips.

“What? Is it that bad?” Jack floated to her side, peering closely at her profile. “You’d have told me over the snowglobe if Pitch was doing something. Wouldn’t you? Like. I wouldn’t have needed to fly all the way here for that?” Jack considered. “Is Mother Nature on my ass again? Because I already apologized, like, _twice_ for what happened in Boston, you know—”

“The coronation,” said Tooth. “It’s three days from now.”

When Toothiana looked up at him, Jack’s face was carefully blank.

He should have responded by now, but the words weren’t quite coming. Eventually, he settled on the first thought that had formed in his head. “That soon, huh?”

Toothiana’s smile turned a tad too wobbly for Jack’s tastes. (Maybe Bunny wasn’t supposed to be there just for _him_?) “Jack,” she said softly. “It’s… been three years. Her twenty-first birthday was in January… it’s time.”

“Sure,” Jack nodded, and gave nothing else.

“We wanted to know if… What we means is, would you like to—”

“You still keep tabs on her?” Jack interrupted, flicking away her concern with a level voice, a neutral tone, a cool stare. He really didn’t want to start a fight.

Neither did Toothiana. “We get it, Jack,” she sighed, like all of the years were pulling out the air, slipping right out of her like time and sand between their fingers. “I’m sorry. We just had to ask.”

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, chewing on his tongue. Tabs and secrets and _practice makes perfect, fake it ’til you_ — “Thanks.”

It was a long time before Jack realized that Toothiana was still staring at him. He blinked at her. “Was that it?”

Jack didn’t appreciate the way she was looking at him.

“Yeah,” she said. “That was it.” 

  
. * * * .  
  


Jax wasn’t pleased to see that Jack Frost was four minutes late to the rendezvous peak, but he’d also brought with him an extra bag of snacks, which was more than enough to put him back in Jacqueline’s good graces, and almost enough to persuade Jax to pretend it’d never happened. Jackie was just happy to see him.

He lingered longer than truly necessary, which was a balm for all of them, honestly, and a few hours later, Jack Frost kicked off the Ross Ice Shelf with a grin and a flick of his staff and three happy Helpers in his wake. It was a long ride to catch up to Sandy, but Jack took his time. He even flossed on the way.

Sophie still couldn’t see him, but he liked to think that she might be able to sense him, much like she once did before she had any true recognition of what was real or not real or _maybe sort of real_. It helped—a lot, actually. He liked to visit Sophie in the mornings after a long night of patrol, when she took her morning phone calls with Jamie. (Perhaps—and this is merely a possibility, here—it had something to do with the discovery that apparently Belief carried through telephone wires and radio waves, and Jamie was very easily distracted.)

Jack presented his official report on the Hamada Brothers when he got around to it, and it wasn’t nearly as much like pulling teeth as he’d imagined. (He flossed, again, as per Tooth’s strict orders; it helped that Baby Tooth arrived with a fresh supply of floss, as usual.) North nodded in approval as Jack spoke, and provided his insight, and gave his predictions for the coming weeks: Hiro had felt inspired. Tadashi had found a way to keep Hiro’s attention. The motivation was strong. The goal was… attainable.

It felt good.

Pippa and Monty and the others were all doing all right, and it was always a bit of a relief to visit so many cities so quickly—to keep moving, never landing for long, always touching down and quickly reaching out and then up again, _keeping to his toes and never digging in his heels, never settling in, never_ —

Jamie actually laughed in his face when he tried to apologize, and got a faceful of snow in return. Whatever. (After all the _shit_ Jack Frost had to go through to get them to this point, to where they are now—) That felt pretty good, too.

Visiting the Vault with Sophie’s Memory Box entailed a rather long stretch of flying, followed by a snow globe trip and _another_ stretch of flying through rare-as-fuck cloud formations that Jack usually liked to see best at sunset (but oftentimes had to miss, to keep his visiting times inconsistent and strategic, or whatever), and he was actually really looking forward to the trip, so why the fuck he ended up flying in the direction Arendelle was anybody’s guess.

 

. * * * .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Notable quotes borrowed from the transcript of _Big Hero 6_. :)


	212. - being here -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/15/16_. What's this? Two chapter updates in two consecutive days? Is this truly happening?
> 
> IT IS.
> 
>  **Beta'd** by THE FABULOUS **ABIGAIL** , who, by the way, IS COMING THIS SATURDAAYYYYYYY.
> 
> (Prepare for continuation of the Superhero AU fic and more ATC possibly and probably some of the craziest shenanigans on [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com).) **#dragonrent**

 

 

. * * * .

( _you’re an idiot for)_

 _\- being here -  
_  

. * * * .

 

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 _You’re an idiot for being here_ , and he _was_ , and he didn’t really even fully know what had possessed him to go to Arendelle in the first place, but… as long as he was here…

The shingles were crisp on the rooftops: new materials, freshly-hammered in the recent spring, warm from a glaze of sunshine and a bit of wayward frost. The horizon was thick with stark blues and lush greens, each apartment windowbox adorned with bright summertime colors and flowers and fresh paints. The Maypole was already being constructed with freshly-chopped beams from the forest. Children braided daisy chains into crowns and laughingly placed them atop each other’s heads. Jack ignored the spasm in his chest.

He peered down at the little streets between each stretch of new footholds, each pathway more familiar and painfully forgettable than the last. _You spent years flying through these streets_ , he told himself, and had a hard time believing it.

The cobblestones were warm under his feet. His legs took him forward, his staff resting gently over his shoulder as he followed pathways and alleys and garden footpaths. Laughter and conversation and faint music drifted through him, in and out, touching him but never settling in his bones. Every so often a few dogs or cats would scuffle past him; the dogs rustled onward, barely slowing, but every so often a curious cat would lift its head to consider him. And move on.

The children of Arendelle did not see him only because he did not want them to see him; the fairy tale books containing stories of his myth had been shared across the kingdom over a decade ago, and if Jack Frost would only release his cloak of invisibility, then the children of Arendelle might meet him at last. But that wasn’t why he was here.

Jack stared up at the castle.

Then he turned toward the forest, and fled to the mountains instead.

. * * * .

It didn’t take him long to find Kristoff at all.

Jack rode the winds until a Northern current carried the sounds of the ice miners’ songs, and as soon as the low tenor of the lonely miners’ voices filled his head, he took a sharp turn for the right. It wouldn’t hurt to assume that Kristoff still had his favorite spots, right?

“Like clockwork,” Jack whispered, and grinned at the sight of a solitary Kristoff at the edge of a deep pond beneath a long row of thick pines. Sven was digging through the pack that had fallen from his harness and was exceptionally delighted with himself. Kristoff had yet to realize that half the day’s rations of vegetables were already gone.

Kristoff kept a steady stream of conversation flowing between the two of them. Kristoff’s voice had deepened since Jack last saw him—and so had Sven’s, for that matter—and Jack looked on, watching as Sven munched and groaned while Kristoff muttered and whined and laughed. He even sang a few bars of some song—probably something made up on the fly—but only under his breath, in and out with the rhythm of the saw in his grasp. He’d grown a lot taller.

“That should do it,” decided Kristoff, an hour later. The ice blocks filled the added compartment at the back of the sled quite nicely. Kristoff was clearly familiar with the precise measurements needed to get the job done and was clearly a master of his trade. Jack briefly wondered if Kristoff had been able to enjoy the sunshine and the warmer weather… it _was_ summer, after all.

Who knew. Jack certainly wouldn’t have minded if Kristoff ended up liking the snow a bit more than the sun.

On a whim, he followed and floated along as Kristoff traded his wares for a few rations of potatoes and carrots (“ _Sven—what the hell did you do!_ Ohhh, I’m sorry, Kristoff, I just couldn’t— _YEah, yeah, whatever, you old hog, just don’t expect any extras tonight, you glutton._ ”) and traipsed back to a quiet patch of the woods that was well-shaded with soft, flat ground. Jack should have known, but he didn’t fully realize that it’s where Kristoff was planning to sleep until he unrolled his pack. Sven took to a thatch of long grass, which he half-grazed and half-lazed upon, and soon Jack was lazing with them: Kristoff and Sven on the ground, with Kristoff in his bedroll and Jack on a low tree branch, at least two of them gazing up through the thick copse of pine branches to the stars. Sven’s chewing eventually turned to snoring, and every so often, Kristoff let out an unreadable sigh. It was a warm night, and Jack forced himself to be comfortable.

And then Kristoff quietly sang himself to sleep, and Jack was left awake.

. * * * .

The harbor was loud and crashing with wind and waves that night, and Jack quickly let himself wonder what Mother Nature had planned for the _nordsøen_. And then he killed the thought, because he’d recently learned that _thinking_ about Mother Nature often accidentally seemed to summon her wrath and will, and Jack was already on thin ice with her enough as it was. (It wasn’t his fault good ol’ Mama Nature couldn’t take a joke, but yeah, he should probably quit it with the nicknames, even if only in his head, because even though he’d never actually _met_ her, per se, she’d certainly made herself known to him, and she’d made it _perfectly_ clear where he stood—)

Anyway. The waves.

The sea was black and wild and restless. In the air, Jack felt the energy of the world struggling against its constraints, quiet and disquieted—fit to burst, but not _yet_. Impatient, maybe. Like it was trying so hard for the calm before the storm, but couldn’t quite settle down; too many moving pieces, too many fits and starts, too much, and it just needed to tire itself out completely before it could reach any sort of rest. Or maybe he was just looking too deeply into things.

The soft lights of Arendelle were bright and beautiful against the inky blackness of the sky. Jack stared at them for a long time over the harbor, watching the way the candle flames flickered with every breeze, every blink of the night.

The sounds of the waves rose up, crashed into him, so loud and fierce that he could almost feel them—the spray of salt and seawater against his skin, the way it would freeze into snowdust along his cheek. It was a warm night, but Jack didn’t really feel it. He didn’t really feel much of anything.

. * * * .

In the morning, Kristoff awoke just after dawn. He was annoyed—Sven was supposed to wake him—but since the reindeer had overeaten, _both_ of them had overslept. Kristoff blinked bleary eyes to the light of a sun already well into the horizon, and Jack chuckled as he groaned and griped and changed course for the day.

“We got enough to last us another day or two,” he muttered, taking stock of their supplies. “As long as _someone_ doesn’t let himself go again. _Aww, Kristoff, it was only once—_ Yeah, so far this week, you dog! No more of that, you hear? _Yes, Kristoff, I—_ I mean it! We’ll be getting some free grub tomorrow at the Queen’s big party, but we’re not gonna squander our chances just because _you_ can’t control yourself. _Yes, Kristoff—_ ”

This went back and forth for some time. Kristoff and Sven decided to pay a visit to the Tavern, if only because going to the village square _two_ days in a row would be torture. (“ _If we have to spend the whole day there tomorrow for the coronation, I sure as hell ain’t gonna spend any of today pretending to be civilized, all right_.”) Sven got some nuts to crunch on outside while Kristoff got himself a few drinks, which he drank in mostly contented solitude… save for the invisible ice guy next to him the whole time.

“You still hate being around people this much?” Jack prodded, and—just for kicks—occasionally poked Kristoff in the arm. He couldn’t really _feel_ him, of course, when Jack was like this—but the mysterious, confusing-as-hell shudder that suddenly overtook the ice miner every so often on this early, warm summer afternoon was definitely worth the mischief. “You grew up so grumpy.”

 _And lonely_ , Jack wanted to add, but didn’t. It wasn’t like Kristoff could hear him either way. But.

Jack wasn’t paying much attention to the other patrons in the tavern—wasn’t paying much attention to anything at all, really, after a while—so when Kristoff’s curiosity was abruptly piqued by something said by the a group of rough-looking merchants at the bar, Jack noticed too.

“—the ships piling up in the harbor? We ain’t had this many diplomats and bureaucrats in these parts in almost a decade, I reckon. Think of all the goods behind those hulls,” said one bearded man to another. “Gifts for a new Queen, eh? Bet you’re not gonna find that kind of merchandise again in this lifetime.”

“You ain’t gonna find that merchandise in _this_ lifetime, you scallop,” gruffed another. “Queen’s got her gates locked up so tight, ain’t noone gettin’ in but the aristocracy, and not even all of ‘em are invited.”

Kristoff continued to sip his ale, casually pretending that he wasn’t interested. And—who knew, maybe he wasn’t, really—but Kristoff certainly hadn’t survived on his own for so long by closing his ears off to what was going on around him. (Kid may not have _liked_ the world, in general, but he was still living in it, _which is more than you can say for yourself_. Jack shut off the voice in his head.)

“I hear the gates aren’t even openin’ ’til the morn,” offered the first, quiet and over the rim of his pint like it was a secret, like it was something _hidden_ , like the fact that Arendelle’s castle walls had become borders and prison bars and barriers wasn’t common knowledge— “And the Queen commissioned a whole _fleet_ of new rooms to be constructed on the castle grounds just so she could house a few of the foreign ones without having to take them into the castle, which—ya ever heard a somethin’ like that?”

“They guarded?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he warned caustically. “That place is more heavily guarded than was Corona’s Lost Princess.”

“After she stopped being Lost, or after the King realized she was with Rider?”

“Don’t be daft, you weasel, you know what I’m tellin’ ya. The Queen may be a cold one, but she ain’t stupid, and she ain’t takin’ any chance with the likes of us.”

Jack’s eyes continue to narrow at the small scuffle that was taking place before his eyes; Kristoff appeared to be easily and outwardly ignoring the bar, merely appreciating his drink, but Jack Frost knew better.

“Hey, why you callin’ her Queen? She ain’t no Majesty until the ceremony—”

“You shut your mouth and show the family some respect,” snapped the second, who was apparently very much the leader of the pack. “You ain’t been here very long, which means you don’t know nothing about what we been through in this kingdom, which means you learn some goddamn manners before you take your yapping mouth outside of this Tavern and go spitting on the royal family, _understand_?”

“ _Hell_ , I didn’t mean—”

Kristoff let out a sudden scoff, abruptly tearing Jack’s attention away from the newest member’s apparent groveling. He turned just in time to see Kristoff take a rather large swig of his drink, slap some coins on the table, and leave.

Jack hurried out after him.

“You know what happened to Anna,” Jack called after him, feeling something snake up into his chest and _clench_. It was more irritating than anything else. Kristoff kept walking, even past Sven, who lay under the shade of a nearby tree. The reindeer lifted its head, curious and concerned, then trotted after them. Kristoff didn’t let up, and neither did Jack. “You _saw_ what the King and Queen did that night.”

Kristoff, of course, said nothing.

“You never told anyone,” Jack touched down near Kristoff’s sled, which was now being packed and organized and prepared. Kristoff muttered something about taking it to Pabbie and Bulda and Cliff for safe-keeping until after the coronation, and Jack grew exceptionally, irrationally angry. “Why? Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Kristoff tightened a strap that held another pack tight to his precious sleigh, unaware of Jack’s rage and wrath and presence and _maybe even existence_ —

“Do you remember it?” Jack demanded quietly. “Or did they bury that, too?”

Kristoff, of course, didn’t answer him.

. * * * .  


True to the merchants’ words, the harbor was already beginning to fill with ships and boats. Diplomats, bureaucrats, aristocrats, one herd right after the other. The town was _brimming_.

Celebrations had started early, it seemed. The singing was louder; the music, faster; the laughter, clearer and brighter and fuller. Guards were stationed everywhere, kind and welcoming and firm, and the whole push and pull of the kingdom felt like it was bustling, like everyone was fit to burst and would be more than happy to do it, like they’d only been waiting ten, fifteen years for something like this to happen. Jack felt strangely detached from it all.

The castle loomed over him, with its high stone walls and its cold, colored glass. It was a wide expanse of mortar and brick, of wooden beams cut from the nearby forests and endless, endless secrets.

“I bet you’re pretty excited, Anna,” he let himself whisper, staring at the distant wall where he knew there once hung a grand, window-washer’s swing. Maybe it was still there. “Sorry I won’t be able to make it.”

  
. * * * .  


Jack Frost found his way to the Vault where Sophie’s Memory Box was kept safe. The clouds weren’t quite set to sunset color scheme, but they were beautiful all the same, and the inevitable view of so many golden boxes kept treasured and protected and guarded was a sight for sore eyes, indeed. Jack found what he needed, and decided to check in with North from Tooth’s Palace again, just cuz.

But he’d be damned if was actually gonna report _promptly_ for once, so he made a quick detour to the Warren, maybe to kick up some frozen dirt in Bunny’s teeth or hang with the eggs. He briefly wondered if he should come up with an excuse for where he’d been the last day or so, then decided it didn’t matter. They knew better than to ask at this point, and Jack wasn’t really sure what answer he’d give, but it wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. Jack landed on a bed of soft, cushy greenery and felt his spirits lift with a kind of relief that suddenly felt very much needed. He could use a good prank right about now, so where the hell was the Kangaroo?

The stones were all rumbling, and the eggs were quite focused on their lines. It was almost a full year to the next Easter, but the Warren’s operations ran as fluidly as the streams that cut through it, and Jack felt his shoulders losing some of the tension just from the sight of so many familiar lines and colors and tasks. A few of the eggs waved when they saw him, and a few of the rock creatures definitely grunted. Jack grinned back at them.

Bunny wasn’t in the main, and he wasn’t in any of the tunnels he liked to frequent most, which meant that he’d either missed him (maybe he should have gone to Tooth’s straightaway, after all, but _nah_ ) or Bunny was deeply-entrenched in some new project or other (maybe he’d circled back to the garden plots when he hadn’t been looking?), but Jack got the feeling that Bunny was somewhere else. He wasn’t really sure why.

“Yo,” Jack called, enjoying the echo of his voice off of so many tunnels and so many wide-open spaces and rocks and other satisfying things. It felt good to be here, surrounded by familiarity that didn't suck. And speaking of: “ _Kangaroo_. Where the hell are ya? I’ve got a bone to pick with—”

He didn’t, actually. Just figured it was as good a way to start up the banter as any. And who knew, maybe he might have a bone to pick with Bunny eventually, soon enough, like maybe right now, since Bunnymund had apparently been in the Globe Room the whole time, doing nothing but staring pensively at the map with Berk and stroking his chin and completely ignoring Jack’s presence and very obvious need for mischief, so.

Jack’s brows furrowed. “What are you—?”

He caught sight of what was holding Bunny’s attention so thoroughly, but… wasn’t sure it made sense.

“Oh,” said Jack, staring at the spot of deep green light positioned at the center of Berk, and the way that it… pulsed. Small and infrequent, but… steady. Thrumming. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” said Bunnymund, and his voice sent a chill down Jack’s spine. “ _Oh_.”

. * * * .

 


	213. - which color -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/27/16_. (Still in time for Easter!) The good news is that Bunny would be marginally pleased to know that the world is not being torn apart by chaos on Easter (again).
> 
> The bad news is that it's (they're) still sort of being torn apart by chaos.
> 
>  **Beta'd** by **ABIGAIL** and **XRIS**. ♡

 

 

. * * * .  
 

\- _which color -_

. * * * . 

 

“North,” demanded Bunny, who was now staring at the globe centered in the midst of the titular workshop. “What do you reckon?”

North was not normally the kind to stroke his beard in thought. This quiet pensivity still unsettled Jack, even after however many years of Strange Occurrences and Other Things that Made the Wonder Guardian Ponder. 

Jack was sort of getting tired of his inexperience constantly leaving him out of the loop.

“It is strange,” North decreed, which wasn’t any new news, but, “The light _does_ appear to be the same pulse of a Turning Point, yes, but for one to have _two_? And so young?” 

Jack still wasn’t really sure what was ‘weird’ by normal standards and what was ‘Weird’ by Guardian standards. “Didn’t you once tell me that people have plenty of turning points in their lives? Like—all the time?”

“Yes, but on level that is METAPHORICAL!” 

“Wait. What metaphor?” 

“Well, in literary terms, a metaphor is a comparison of—”

“No, no, Tooth, I _know_ what a metaphor is, I just mean, like, in relation to turning points and Assignments and. Things.”

“Oops, sorry! You know I never like to assume these things, just in case—and to be honest, I’m not perfectly sure that there isn’t some sort of language Russian-influence language barrier occurring right now—“

“This is ABNORMAL. The pulse has already PULSED. Why pulse AGAIN?”

“No, Tooth, honestly, it’s fine, really, I’m just, like—what metaphor are we talking about here? Why is it so weird that one of Hiccup’s multiple typical-life turning points have turned into an actual magically-oriented Turning Point?”

“If anyone here so much as _utters_ the word ‘turn’ one more time without providing at least a cracker barrel crumb of an explanation for this firecrackin’ madness, I’mma stuff your mouths with top soil.”

“This is VERY STRANGE, indeed,” North continued to stroke his beard, staring hard at the pulsing green light, which, indeed, was emitting the same strange soft pulses that usually indicated the onset of… a point that Would Not be Named in Bunny’s Presence for the Time Being. “Assignments are placed in our care due to a great need… What more could Hiccup need?” 

Bunny’s face grew very grim.

. * * * .

Almost immediately after the briefing, Bunny left for Berk to investigate. He put Jack in charge of reporting any ‘ _funny business’_ to North, an order that Jack took without much fuss. He considered offering up some token resistance, but then decided that it simply wasn’t worth the energy. He was, after all, pretty worried too.

Not to mention the fact that Toothiana was experiencing a poorly-timed surge in baby teeth. (A group of second graders in Montana decided to have a competition to see who could get more visits from the Tooth Fairy, and she was only _partly_ amused.) So Jack took direction from Bunnymund and took charge of the research with Sandy and North about why Hiccup might be experiencing some unusual activity. Well. More unusual than usual, anyway. 

Sandy was already in North’s extensive library when Jack came to check in, mulling silently over dusty texts. Sand kept falling into the pages, and Jack kept brushing it away with icy breaths. 

And then Jack was directing a number of yetis with North at heart of the workshop—they were looking through ancient scrolls about the nature and origins of Turning Points—but he was finding more questions than answers. ( _“Why did Manny decide to focus his magic and energy on specific Turning Points and specific kids? Why haven’t I gotten to visit Manny in person? Wait. Do Guardians get Turning Points, too?”_

 _“Well, of course, Jack—how do you think we became Guardians in first place?”_ )

. * * * .

To Jack’s great disapproval—

It turned out that Pitch Black had once had a great Turning Point, too.

Jack stared down at the illustrations in some old, ruined tome: _A general_ , it said.

(Sandy told him the story, himself, because Jack might have otherwise not believed it. The book was one thing, but Sandy’s golden words were _another_ , and the bits of truth he gleaned from the silent narrative left him reeling and disjointed and more _confused disappointed angry_ than anything else.

He used to be a _general_ , he used to be more golden than black, he used to be _good_.) 

 _Something’s wrong_ , warned Sandy, once Jack’s attention was diverted from the disconcerting illustrations in the book in his hands. (It looked like someone had once tried to destroy that book.) (Something was going on with the globe, and Sandy was pointing to it desperately.) (Jack had just gotten to the part where Pitch’s daughter— _daughter!_ —had disappeared, and he needed to know what happened to—) 

The globe was shifting.

Unlike Toothiana’s palace, which had an entire collection of globes constantly in motion, North settled on just the one, which shifted and changed and altered itself based on the needs of its master. Normally, the vision that appeared was whichever world North summoned with his loud, sharp-shooting thoughts. 

Except this time, it seemed like the globe couldn’t decide. Like it didn’t know which world to land on. 

North glared at the globe with the force of a raging army.

“What’s it doing?” Jack demanded, as North continued to gloom and doom. Jack pointed the end of his staff towards the dark green ring of light that was suddenly located in the middle of the ocean on a map that wasn’t supposed to include Berk at all. “What the fuck? That’s still Hiccup! And that… he’s in the sea not too far from Corona now? But Rapunzel’s light isn’t there? Where is she?" 

Sandy and North were watching intently. Jack tried very hard to not let it show, but the whole ‘This Really Bad Thing Has Never Happened Before and We Don’t Understand What is Happening’ type of catastrophe was really getting to be a lot to handle; why did all of this shit happen _after_ Jack Frost became a Guardian, yeah?

“All right,” said Jack, aiming for levity. “I’m calling it right now: if any shadows show up on this thing, I call dibs for punching the Bogeyman’s lights ou—“

A soft yellow ring of light— _bright_ , like daisies and _sunshine and golden crowns_ —began to dance.

“Oh,” said Jack. “ _Hell_ no.”

The globe kept shifting, switching, rearranging itself and breaking apart its topography—re-layering and re-mapping itself like one of Toothiana’s mosaics, like a wave of Sandy’s sand—like it couldn’t sit still, couldn’t decide, and Jack kind of hated himself for it a little bit but he couldn’t help but think of Arendelle; of the castle full of people and diplomats and visitors and ambassadors; of Anna, sound asleep in her bed with her bright green gown waiting on the dress-from near the wall; of wondering _which color the pair of gloves might be for the ceremony the next morning—_

Hiccup’s light was pulsing, and so was Rapunzel’s.

“Fuck,” said Jack, with increasing panic. “Fuck. I'm gonna be the one to tell Bunny, all right? I know that’s, like, my job right now, but I’m not—”

Not necessary: Bunny shot out from a sudden hole in the ground just as North boldly declared this fiasco to be a Phenomenon, looking shaken and confused and more than a little at a loss. His eyes were wild, like an animal’s.

“Tell me,” he began, with great strain, “that you have an explanation.”

Jack really, really wished they did.

“Why is it only yours?” Jack wondered aloud, for better or worse, staring at the globe as the waves of change continued to thrash against the surface. “Like. Even through all the messed up landforms, you can see that Hiccup’s isn’t actually that far away from Rapunzel’s? Why are _both_ of them freaking out? Is the map broken? Why is Rapunzel’s light so far away from Coron—“

Oh.

Jack knew why.

“Bunnymund,” intoned North, frightfully severe. “What is happening in Berk?”

No time was wasted. “No bloody idea,” Bunny returned. “The boy’s avoiding the chief-talk, but that’s nothin’ out of the ordinary. Got a feelin’ he’ll be skippin’ off his dragon tourney to go explorin’ but there ain’t nothing wild about that.”

“Chief-talk? Like—becoming a chief? Wouldn’t that seem like a pretty good reason for a Turning Point?” Jack ventured. “Er. Like. Another one. I mean, it doesn’t explain Rapunzel’s—“

“They’re summoning Memories!” called out a breathless voice, and Jack and the others turned just in time to witness Toothiana come swooping in through the open balcony, a small army of fairies fluttering behind her. “Hiccup and Rapunzel—I can _feel_ it!”

Bunny’s eyes went wide. “Memories of what?”

“Of _so_ much—Hiccup has been feeling nostalgic, and has been sinking back into deeper thoughts about his mother—“

“His _mother_?”

“And it’s been affecting him greatly, especially with his father pressuring him to assume more responsibility in the clan, and this is Rapunzel’s first time entering Arendelle! She’s wondering what kind of impression she will leave, and is thinking back to her childhood of being trapped in the tower and never learning how to introduce herself or meet someone new or learn the art of small talk—”

“Whoah, whoah, slow down,” Bunny urged. “Are these _good_ Memories?”

“They’re bittersweet!” groaned out a frustrated Toothiana, as her fairies swarmed the immediate area. “The way they’re reaching for their Memories is so unnerving—like they’re feeling themselves become restless, more than anything else I’ve felt before! Like they know that they’re at some sort of crossroads but they can’t possibly know _what_ , and neither can we, and they’re reaching for _something_ to help them find their way but we don’t know what it could be and _girls, get a grip, this is business!_ ”

“So wait,” interrupted Jack, because honestly, how the hell did they expect him to keep up if they kept throwing more and more wrenches into his already-minimal understandings, for frost’s sake— “We know that Hiccup and Rapunzel are each, like, on the brink of _something_? And we don’t know what—like usual—but we know that they’re calling up Memories to guide them through it—like usual—and their lights are going haywire. This… seems like a pretty typical experience for a Turning Point? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here, but so far isn’t the only major difference to this equation that they’re each chugging along on their second Point, and, okay, well, I guess it’s still Weird that they’re both happening simultaneously—but really, is this not like a relatively ordinary process otherwise?”

“Mate,” said Bunny, who had gone very, very, especially gray. Who was staring at the globe. “Shut your damn hole.”

The speed of the waves and mosaic shifting had increased in speed, had increased in turbulence, leaving Jack with the distinct impression that he’d _spoke too soon_. He promptly shut his mouth, only for his jaw to fall open.

The globe _was_ going absolutely haywire: the visions started overlapping with even more maps, even more regions and worlds and strangely-written ( _country city kingdom_ ) names. And—it occurred to Jack suddenly, how strange it was that he’d never thought about it before—how he’d never considered, geographically speaking, how closely located Berk and Corona and the Highlands (“ _Fuck! That’s Merida!”_ ) and Arendelle all were, coordinates-wise.

(San Fransokyo was the only outlier, but that made _sense_ , somehow, even though Jack didn’t understand _why_ —)

(And then the globe, the ever-shifting current of maps and landforms and lights, over and over and over—changed course, and soon the landforms start drifting in and out of sight, never holding their ground for more than a few moments at most, but the lights, the _lights—  
_ —all remained, always constant, always visible.) 

Five small rings of light: glowing, shimmering, emitting a strange pulse; none of them were filled with white Light, not a one, but each and every one of them shone with a sense of _something_ , each one of them _alive_.

Green, yellow, orange, red. 

And blue.

. * * * .

 

 

 


	214. - closer look -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/7/16_. WOW, YES, I AM STILL ALIVE. For a bit of fun background context...
> 
> In the past few months, I have: completed grad school, finished my fifth year at my previous job, conducted multiple job searches for various time periods (including moving abroad and teaching English in Japan for year), accepted a job offer in Japan for January of 2017 and onward, accepted two separate job offers for the fall of 2016, worked a completely different full-time summer position, visited family and friends in various cities/states/countries with over eight flights in a matter of three weeks, interviewed for more jobs, accepted more jobs, started brand new jobs, and served as the maid of honor in a destination wedding. It's been a busy half a year! ♡
> 
> ALSO, and perhaps more significantly, about six months ago my "K" and "L" keys stopped working on my laptop. ~~do you have any idea how difficult it is to write fanfiction about “jack” and “elsa” with a keyboard that does not allow you to type “k” or “l” do you have any idea do you have any~~ THESE TWO CHAPTERS FROM TODAY are specifically in impromptu celebration of my BRAND NEW LAPTOP, which I picked up last night!!
> 
> Updates will be sporadic and spontaneous and a surprise henceforth. We are almost done. Thank you for sticking with me. ♡♡♡
> 
> (Unbeta'd for now because I'm an impatient motherfucker and I WANT TO CELEBRATE THIS BRIGHT NEW ERA, but I will fix all mistakes sure enough in the future, lol, bear with me.)

  
  
. * * * .  
  
_\- closer look -_  
  
. * * * .

  
  
“Dude, where have you _been?_ ”  
  
Jack snatched the proffered styrofoam cup of hot cocoa from Jamie’s outstretched hand and raised it high in a mock show of _cheers_ all in one fell swoop. He downed it in another.  
  
“Shit. Doesn’t that, like… burn?”  
  
“It might,” Jack acknowledged, voice rough and singed. He paced the length of the backyard in Jamie’s childhood home, rotating his staff with every gravelly huff of breath. Jamie watched on from the porch. “Something’s wrong.”  
  
“We know. North got super hyped and snowglobed. He filled us in.”  
  
Jack paused, but only long enough to eye Jamie over the blue of his hooded shoulder. “You sound pretty calm for someone who just got news that an Unexpected Load of Trouble is on its way.”  
  
Jamie shrugged from his spot against the railing. “Wouldn’t be the first time the world had, like, a monumental supernatural disaster afoot. It’s practically old hat at this point.”  
  
His expression went wry. “So says the Last Light.”  
  
“Or: so says a young, professional academic-type who’s probably still processing some very heavy shit right about now. And coping by making hot chocolate at nine in the evening. With miniature marshmallows. Because that’s what functional and responsible young professionals do.”  
  
Jack, in the thick of it all, had the nonsensical moment of clarity in which to ask, “You had marshmallows and you didn’t add any to mine? Wait—why the hell are you drinking hot chocolate? It’s summertime.”  
  
“Dude, why are you even _here_ ? Don’t you have like a billion other places to be right now? Did I not understand properly when North started going off about how like every single one of the Assignments is going through some wildly significant, unprecedented form of change or something?”  
  
“Chill out,” Jack insisted, dryly, and was fairly surprised at the relief he felt over the familiarity of seeing Jamie roll his eyes. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I’m just passing through.”  
  
“Interesting choice of words,” said Jamie, tone as flat as Bunny’s sense of humor on a good day, or apparently Jamie’s on a bad one. “I thought we’d given up on the whole, ‘ha, ha, Jamie was a shitty friend who didn’t remember the sun or whatever when it went away at night’ business, yes, we all sucked, we remember, can we get on with it.”  
  
“Dude, what? I totally wasn’t even _referring_ to _—?_ Wait. Actually? No. I don’t care, because I don’t have time for your continued melodrama, you ungrateful pipsqueak, so listen.”  
  
“Listening.”  
  
“If you’re gonna be a brat and keep drinking hot chocolate with teeny marshmallows, the least you could do is share.”  
  
“And let you destroy your esophagus again? You didn’t even savor the first cup. Wait. Hold on. Why are you still here? Why are we still bantering about this? Why are you not freaking out about this? Everyone _else_ is freaking out about this.” Something occurred to Jamie; Jack could see the calculation in his eyes, which was precisely why Jack looked away. “Wait. You _are_ freaking out about this. That’s why you’re here. You’re freaking out so much you don’t want to even tell the others.”  
  
Jack’s glare was dry and dismal. “The last thing the world needs right now is for another Guardian to ‘freak out’.”  
  
“Dude,” said Jamie, and poured him another cup of blistering hot chocolate. He actually took the time to walk it over to him, bare feet joining more bare feet in the long grass.  
  
Jack didn’t actually take a sip for a long, long time.  
  
“Where are you going to go?” asked Jamie, when Jack was halfway through his cup. The night was dark and thick but warm, full with the smell of sweet, fresh air and happy summertime sounds; in the songs of crickets and humming cars and distant radios, in the sticky balm of midsummer’s heat, there seemed to be no room for nightmares or fear or cold chills slipping down bony spines. Even in the darkness, there was too much light, and lightness, and warmth.  
  
When still there was no answer, Jamie licked his lips and spoke carefully, a question that he did not want to ask. “Is that why you’re here? Because you have to decide?”  
  
“No,” Jack answered, and if his voice was like gravel again, it was only because of the hot chocolate. “We already decided who goes where.”  
  
Jamie’s brows furrowed. “Then… you’re going…?”  
  
The gulp of hot chocolate was thick, congealed and cooled by innate forces too automatic to be tamed by him, and Jack swallowed it down, but not without effort. “Yeah.”  
  
“To…?”  
  
“Sandy is going to the Highlands. He hasn’t been there in years, although time hasn’t really passed there the same way it has here, so it will be a bit weird for him. Bunny is taking Berk, because he’s batshit worried, but also because he can technically travel the fastest—besides me—enough to keep up with Toothless.”  
  
“What about North?”  
  
Another sip. “There are currently two Assignments in Arendelle right now. That’s where Pitch will most likely be. So. That’s North.”  
  
Jack could feel Jamie’s gaze on him. The hot chocolate was freezing in his cup, styrofoam and all.  
  
“So… if there’s two Assignments… shouldn’t there be two Guardians too?”  
  
“There will be,” he answered, sensing Jamie’s growing frustration. “Tooth will be with him.”  
  
Uncertainty rolled off of the young professional in waves. “And you?”  
  
For the first time in a long while, Jack actually turned his gaze towards Jamie’s. “I made a mistake once or twice, about not giving time to a kid who was important to me, just because he wasn’t a Believer.”  
  
Jamie looked at him, but said nothing. His expression didn’t change, even when Jack released a trademark half-grin. Who knew cocoa could be so bitter?  
  
“It’s not really something I’m looking to do again, Jamie.”  
  
The kid was restless with Unspoken Opinions. Too much, too many things he wanted to say. But he wouldn’t, for reasons that were his own.  
  
“You wanna argue, and I get it,” Jack acknowledged. “You think I’m running away.”  
  
“Aren’t you?” Jamie whispered, hushed in the gentle night breeze.  
  
But Jack shook his head. “I’m not the Guardian meant for Arendelle right now,” he told him. “And I have already let Hiro slip through the cracks enough. I’m trying to do this thing now where I learn from past mistakes.”  
  
Jamie’s jaw clenched. It looked suspiciously like his eyes were tearing up, but that could have just been the general aesthetic of the evening, with the summertime street lamps and the warm brush of untrimmed grass and a dewy sort of warmth to everything he looked at.  
  
“That’s a pretty wild concept,” said Jamie, dry as ever. Jack laughed.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

. * * * .  
  
“Hey. Before I go… You gonna be okay, kid?”  
  
“Oh yeah, man. Just rereading old fairy tales all night. Eating popcorn with the crew.  
Pondering life and magic. The usual.”  
  
“That’s not really what I mean.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, dude. North hooked us up.”  
  
“…how?”  
  
“Well, aside from the basic combat training and Nightmarling-dispelling techniques,  
Phil’s been totally sleeping in the basement.”  
  
. * * * .

  
( _“Of course there’s a Turning Point,”_ Jack had tried to argue, only a few hours ago in the workshop, when the adrenaline was still high and the shock was still new and everything was still in chaos. _“It’s a coronation. That’s sort of the whole point of the ceremony. It’s change.”_  
_“I don’t like it,”_ Bunny states. And he really didn’t. He looked like he was gonna be sick. _“I got a bad feeling.”_  
_“So go eat some flowers or something.”_ )  
  
But after all that, Hiro, as it turned out, was fine. His presentation to the Institute was still a good four or so days away, and while his anxiety levels were off the charts, he was also totally occupied and off the streets. He and Tadashi hadn’t spent this much productive, non-lecturing time together in… a long time.  
  
“Hamada is fine,” Jack sighed into the snow globe, glancing at the clock. The hour was definitely growing late—in many worlds, yeah, but especially this one. “He’s a nervous wreck, but he’s fine.”  
  
“ _He still has plenty to do_ ,” came Toothiana’s rare voice from the other end of the snow globe. It was so much softer than North’s booming shout-scream… almost like she realized that you didn’t need to shout into the damn thing to make it work. Like _magic_ . Wow, what a miracle.  
  
“He’s plenty busy all right,” Jack let loose a fond smile. His grin took on a twist, “It’s pretty tame… I almost preferred it when he was out street fighting battle bots.”  
  
" _Don’t you start_.”  
  
“Seriously, this kid has got the whole world in his hands,” Jack almost sighed. “No wonder his Turning Point is acting up. He’s about to make friggin’ history.”  
  
" _He is truly remarkable_.”  
  
The snow globe trailed off into awkward silence. Through the link, past the sounds of the busy garage-come-workshop, Jack could almost make out the indistinct sounds of a distant party taking place. Polite background chatter, plenty of guests. A far off orchestra. Laughter.  
  
“How goes things on your end?” Jack asked, awkward and stilted, mostly because he hadn’t been planning on asking. But he could do this. He could totally do this.  
  
“ _Quiet_ ,” said Toothiana, which was true in the broadest sense, and subsequently a very good thing, but it was also punctuated by a light trickle of collective laughter. Arendelle’s ballroom was having a grand old rager, apparently.  
  
“Have you forced North to dance with you yet?” Jack pestered, ignoring the swirl of sick in his gut. “Probably better than navigating Bunnymund’s colossal feet.”  
  
“ _Ha, ha_ ,” said Toothiana, his redirection tactics seemingly doing the trick. “ _Glad to see that the Hamada charm has been rubbing off on you. Hiro’s influence?”_  
  
“See, you’d think that, but the true Master is really Aunt Cass. I aspire to achieve that level of snark.”  
  
“ _Would you believe me if I wished you luck on your mission?_ ”  
  
“Not a bit.”  
  
“ _Good._ ”  
  
Jack grinned, almost into the glass. “I’m out.”  
  
“ _All right. Head back to Burgess when you’re done, says North._ ” A pause. “ _He also says not to do anything reckless_.”  
  
“Please. Do you know me?”  
  
He cut out before she could answer.

. * * * .  
  


A half hour later, and Hiro was still fine. Busy. Entertained. Safe.  
  
Jack went to Burgess then, as expected; he did not, at any point, consider making any additional side-trips to Arendelle.  
  
When Jack arrived, Jamie was taking a break from Movie Night with the Burgess squad, as he was wont to do. Storybooks were spread haphazardly all around him at the kitchen table, organized according to a system that only a young professional academic-type who was “Processing Heavy Shit” could understand. He’d stacked the pile of his mother’s bills and envelopes safely onto the counter for her to return to in the morning, once she woke up, because he was a responsible son who _always visited_ and _took care of so much_ and had such _lasting, loyal friendships_. Jack grinned, and looked down at the open book currently in front of him.  
  
Jamie was reading a tale called _The Snow Queen_.  
  
Jack’s stomach lurched.  
  
He nodded to the open book, mouth filling with sand. “What story’s that?”  
  
“This one?” Jamie looked up, surprised. “You haven’t heard of it?”  
  
Jack shook his head.  
  
“Oh, wow. I totally assumed… huh. Yeah. Okay, I guess that was pretty presumptuous of me—to just imagine that you knew all about the, like, cold character fairy tales because you’re all about the cold and stuff.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It’s the _Snow Queen_ , man. It’s like—a pretty popular one, though there’s like a thousand variations. I’m really surprised you haven’t heard of it?”  
  
He hadn’t heard of the _story_.  “I… may or may not have heard the name.”  
  
“Huh. Well, either way, it’s worth looking into whenever you’ve got the time.”

“Why that one?” Jack asked, at long last, when the words struggled their way from his throat.

“Why not?” Jamie countered, blandly. With no other choice, Jack shrugged. Jamie seemed to sense Jack’s alertness though, because after a few minutes, he speculated: “I don’t know. I read a whole bunch of them before this, including yours. I overheard North talking to Sandy about a few tales when they were checkin’ out my library one day, so I decided to brush up on them.”

Jack got a tight feeling in his chest. “They specified this one?”

“Sort of? They mentioned a few, including yours, like I said… I just got sidetracked by this one.” Jamie shrugged in turn, and Jack’s grip tightened over his staff. “I hadn’t really read it in a while, and. I don’t know. It just got me thinking.”

“About what?”

“Thinking, like… I don’t know. Where fairy tales come from. What they’re based on, the truths and morals they contain. That sort of thing.”

Jack studied him. “Isn’t that what you research for a living?”

“Well, yeah. But I guess I just meant… this one. In particular.”

He couldn’t help it. “Why?”

“Well… I guess I’ve always sort of wondered, you know… how the story starts.”

Jack’s dead-beating heart began to pound, stupidly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, like… Hasn’t it ever bothered you that fairy tales seem to always start at the thick of the problem? You’re always like… thrown right into it. Rising action, climax, conclusion—bam. What kind of exposition do you really get? Where’s the backstory? And even then—no one ever bothers to take the time to really write out what was supposed to have happened at the _start_ of the story. Which is like, the artist’s choice, I get that, and it’s probably considered better writing to like, keep it brief, you know, and anyway all I’m trying to say is it’d really make a difference to know how certain characters got _that_ way, wouldn’t you think?”

Jack only understood about half of what Jamie was saying, but there was just enough for Jack to argue: “I’m actually pretty sure you get quite a bit of backstory… That’s how fairy tales start. You know—‘Once upon a time,’ and all that. Also, you’re still not really answering my question.”

“Okay, yeah, sure, but like—what about the ‘once upon a times’ for the _other_ characters? The ones who don’t get to play the protagonist of the story?”

Jack glanced down at the book, spread open under Jamie’s harsh kitchen light. A thin, itchy layer of dread settled over Jack’s flesh; it wrapped itself up in his stomach, and stayed there. “You mean like sidekicks? Secondary characters?”

“No. Well, yeah. But I meant more like… the antagonists,” said Jamie. “The villains.”

Jamie mistook Jack’s look for confusion, and tried to explain. “Like, with this one: in so many versions, all you ever get to learn about in the beginning is the friendship between the girl and her childhood friend—( _sorry, spoiler alert?_ )—but how many versions tell you how their kingdoms came into existence? What happened _before_ the story? How did the Snow Queen become _Queen_? Or, for that matter, how did she become evil in the first place?”

Something surged up into Jack’s chest, hot like a knife.

“The Snow Queen isn’t _evil_ ,” he spat, and he was seething so much Jamie actually reeled back. “She’s not even a _villain_.”

“Uh,” Jamie looked up at him, unsure of his anger. “…all right?”

Jamie shot a dubious glance at the bizarre illustration in his book, which daringly suggested otherwise, and a tentative glance back at Jack Frost. But Jack held his ground; the illustration was only _fantasy_ , it was clearly intended to explore much darker themes than your typical childhood storybook, thank you, it was _dark_ , and a page full of whited-out cruelty from someone’s sad imagination, and it looked like nothing you would ever expect to find in reality—not even in a world with magic—and, and Jack needed to remember this. It wasn’t real.

Shit.

He owed Jamie an apology, or an explanation, but he was boiling, right beneath the surface. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but whatever it was it was going to _convince_ Jamie not to believe this stupid fairy tale—or any variation thereof. He didn’t know where the idea for this story had come from anyway, and if legends were based on supposed truths or heresay then _somebody_ was clearly getting a mountain of facts wrong, and besides, it’s not like they were even from the same world—

“I thought you hadn’t heard of the story before?”

“I haven’t,” dismissed Jack, distracted by painted face of the woman in the book; pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes, emotionless gaze, cold stare, silent lips, frozen heart—

“Jack. Your snow globe has been hissing at you for, like, a solid minute.”

“It’s just North,” Jack dismissed, still lost in thought. Mostly on how he was going to apologize to the person in front of him. “I’ll get to it eventually.”

“No, man,” said Jamie. “It looks like Tooth.”

. * * * .  
  


When Toothiana called, she did it from castle of Arendelle’s front courtyard. She was pale as fuck; he could see it through the snow globe.

“ _Get here_ ,” she urged, “ _Now_.”

“Shit,” hissed Jack, because Toothiana had hung up without giving him a chance to respond, because this was _not_ what they needed, because his insides were ripping apart and he didn’t have the time to sort them back together. “I gotta go.”

Jamie looked distinctly alarmed. It’d been a long time since Jack had seen it, well and truly, and up close. “What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea. It’s probably not good.”

The kid actually paled, just a bit.

Jack turned to Jamie. “Listen. Do me a favor—read that one again,” he pointed to the _Snow Queen_ with his staff, “And tell me as much shit as you can find.”

Jame couldn’t even muster a snarky comeback. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

Jack took off through the front door, which was something a novelty, but there was no time to appreciate. He’d open the portal when he got to the Atlantic, he figured, because the winds would be more favorable there, and he needed at least a solid minute or two to get his thoughts in order.

It was practical to fly over the Burgess pond, and the pond had been a part of his route for so long that he didn’t notice how the years of habit were drawing him in even as he rushed forward, full-speed to Arendelle—he couldn’t explain it: so many emotions, Jamie and the _Snow Queen_ and too many questions—and that’s when he saw it.

An old, rickety bed in the middle of a distant, familiar clearing…. and a sink hole.

Jack swore into the winds, fierce as Mother Nature’s wrath itself.

“North,” Jack hissed into the dull line of his snow globe; they wouldn’t answer, probably, but at least they’d still hear him. “He’s here. He’s fucking _here_ in Burgess—he’s got a spot by the pond again, the cocky asshole. But I’m coming, all right, I’m not going to engage with the bastard. I only flew down a little bit to get a closer look, to be _sure_ , but I’m not going in, okay, so don’t—”

Pitch didn’t even let Jack have the dignity of winding up down there on his own. The ground opened up beneath his feet, and he fell.

 

. * * * .


	215. - twenty years -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _9/7/16_.

 

. * * * .

\- _twenty years -_

. * * * .

 

But maybe falling was too light a word; Jack was sucked down, consumed by the pull of the darkness and the weight of the world’s collected horrors and, of course, the fearsucker himself.

“ _Jack Frost_ ,” hushed a voice, slithering from the shadows. Jack stumbled to his feet, staff scraping along cracked stone. “ _Always a pleasure._ ”

The darkness was thicker than Jack remembered. It was choking him, seeping into his eyes. His bare heels dug into cool slabs of broken earth, and stayed there; Jack had learned his lessons. He remembered. Pitch wanted him to cower. He wanted him to _run_.

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Twenty years and the only redecorating you’ve done is to make shit darker?” Jack spat out, waiting for the ubiquitous shadows to shift. (Jack wouldn’t be able to actually see him—that was the point, Pitch wouldn’t let himself be seen until he wanted to be seen, that’s what he’s been doing all along, isn’t it, _this whole time, it’s really just all been a game, all just—_ ) “You could really use a dust mop, man.”

The shadows laughed. They all danced with it, against the barest of light from unknown sources atop impossibly high walls, a cavern of darkness and waiting and uncertainty all the things that make up _Fear_. It was more awful than Jack remembered.

“ _Twenty years_ ,” the voice echoed, “ _and still, you hide behind your tricks_.”

“I ain’t the one hiding.”

The shadows seemed to pulse with quiet laughter. He could feel the cruelty of a smile spreading through the darkness, alive and poisonous in every undulating wave. “ _Very well_ ,” the voice replied, and suddenly Pitch was before him.

Jack’s heels dug more firmly into the ground, if only to keep his steps from retreating back. The creature before him was exactly as he’d been in every Memory, in every hateful daydream, in every flash of anger; tall and jagged and thin, a living deathly shadow himself, hollow save for the harsh, eerie glow of his golden eyes.

( _—a daughter_ , the tome had said.)

“I’m a bit disappointed,” blurted Jack, before his mind could get lost down any other train of thought; he had to focus. “No mountains of stolen, broken baby teeth? I thought you were really into the macabre tableaus these days.”

Pitch’s fingers steepled together. Jack kept getting the impression that Pitch was smiling at him, or laughing, but his expression stayed cold and neutral, like a slab of rock, save for the gold. (Wasn’t gold supposed to be _warm?_ )

“ So you noticed, did you?” Pitch asked, raising Jack’s hackles. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated the condescension in Pitch’s voice. “Tell me, Jack Frost… what else have you noticed?”

“I’d love to stay and catch up,” Jack snapped, with unease crawling up his spine like spiders. “But I’ve got somewhere to be… You probably know all about it.”

Pitch’s grin curled. “I’m offended at the insinuation. Although,” he held a finger into the light, “I must say… it is rather uncanny, is it not, the way you seem to find yourself falling into the same hole, over and over again? And always at such momentous occasions.”

Jack didn’t dare take his off eyes off of him. Slowly, he reached a hand into his pocket for his snow globe, the other firmly on his weapon of choice. “You mean just how it’s so funny that you stole your hole-digging tricks from a Pooka? I mean—we could play this game all day, man.” Fingers brushed against glass. “You know, it took me a while to figure it out, but… you haven’t had an original thought in centuries, have you? All you do is steal—the Dream sand, the Memories in the teeth, even your goddamn wormhole into the ground. No wonder.” _North_ , Jack wills. _Listen in, would ya?_

Pitch’s rotten smile did not falter. “Fear is resourceful,” he reminded Jack. “It always finds a way.”

“Not always.”

Pitch considered him. Perhaps he was surprised by Jack’s newfound steadiness and strength. Jack brushed a careful swipe of his thumb against thick glass once more, willing the link to connect. North wouldn’t be able to respond—shouldn’t, for that matter—but there was no harm in a little wave of reinforcements, is there? Jack had already been swayed off track for too long.

“Do you speak for yourself, Jack?” The voice curled out into the space between them; it dragged through the air, filled his lungs like cold smoke. “For your little Light? For your Queen?”

 _Don’t move_ , screamed a voice inside his head, _don’t move, don’t move, don’t move_ , as his throat strained to swallow and his left eyebrow pulsed with a treasonous twitch. “People are a lot stronger than you realize, Pitch.”

“Oh,” breathed Pitch, with pleasure. “I am counting on it.”

The air rushed from Jack’s lungs with a sickening lurch, and it was then that he recognized the brunt of the impact that sent him flying, the sharp strike of unforgiving rock that met his back and slammed his skull with enough force to spark stars in the darkness. Jack stumbled to his feet off the cavernous wall, mouth tasting of blood, and something wet and cold dripping down the back of his neck.Laughter reached his ears before the rest of his senses caught up, too slow, because Jack actually watched as the snow globe in Pitch’s hand came soaring towards the wall besides his head and Jack did nothing about it. It shattered in a spray of broken glass and evaporating magic and melting snowflakes. Jack’s chest felt the loss before his mind registered it.

"So determined… and yet so easily distracted.”

A strike came from behind, slamming into Jack’s spine with enough force to send him to his knees. Jack scrambled to twist and block the next attack, and winded up with the sole of Pitch’s dark boot planted unforgivingly against the staff protecting Jack’s face, and then Pitch’s heel sent him sprawling backwards once more. _What the hell is this?_ Jack coughed his way back to standing, glaring at the overlapping blackness around him. His limbs felts weak and heavy. His movements were too slow. _What’s happened to this place?_

“All the same,” Pitch circled him, slow and languid. “You Guardians never quite know the test of your own strength, do you? Or mine, for that matter,” he confessed with a conspiratorial huff of laughter. Jack glared while he fought off the persisting sense of _extra weight_ that invaded his senses. It was getting stronger. 

“You fill your little wormhole with poison so you can have a chance against us?” Jack spat, fighting dizziness. “Is that it?”

“Oh, I shan’t take credit for all of it. It _is_ of mine own creation—but the loss of your strength is not tied solely to the Immobility of Fear, young frost sprite. There are so many other forces at work that will lay claim to your demise… I will, however, indeed enjoy the view.”

“You think this will get you what you want, Pitch?” Jack gripped his staff with both hands, clinging to stay upright. “Your stupid revenge? A world of darkness and Fear? For people to Believe in you again? To kill me?”

Pitch’s eyes took on an especially amused gleam. They shined with mockery, and Jack cursed as his hand slipped. He quickly gripped back onto the staff, sagging against it, and suddenly Pitch was _right there_ , silently snarling in his face.

“ _Kill_ you, boy?” His broken smile took on a seam of hatred that polluted the air, and Pitch’s heavy fist across Jack’s cheek sent him sprawling hard to the ground. Pitch stood rooted to his stance, but his darkness was everywhere, bearing Jack down. “Of what importance are _you_?” he mocked. “Who are you? A waif of a boy who happened to know a trick or two to save his sister from the ice? Was life just a _game_ to you, little Jack?”

Jack was spitting blood. "You don't... know what the _hell_ you're talking about."

"Oh? And _whose_ responsibility was it to check the ice, Jack?" Pitch arched a brow, face smoothing over precisely while his words dug sharp, cold accusations. " _Who_ was the one that assured her it would be safe? You were the elder; she trusted your judgment.”

Jack’s chest was growing too tight, too tight, too heavy. “Shut up,” he spat, crawling himself onto all fours, then knees, then only one. “Shut _up_!”

“You’ve always known, but how does it feel to finally be asked? How does it feel knowing that a little _Fear_  could have done more to save her, could have saved _you_ —had you only been willing to listen?”

Bile rose in Jack’s throat. “You’re… twisting shit around. Just like you always do, you old, bored bastard.”

“Am I?” Pitch's voice filled with false wonder. “Don’t you remember? That little nagging voice in the back of your mind, all these years.” It filled the room, filled Jack’s head.  _Move_.  _Go_ …

"That's…"

" _That_ ,” Pitch breathed, relishing it. “Is _true._ Genuine. _Fear._ It’s the voice that tells you when to _run_ , and when to hide, and when to fight, when to move or leave or jump, although… you have always had a hard time telling the difference, haven’t you?”

Jack’s head began to swim. Blackness drifted in and around the vision of the Bogeyman before him. Jack struggled to stay standing.

“And that's _twice_ now you've disregarded me directly, Jack: the first cost you your human life; the second, your golden opportunity of immortality sharing my throne, and now… I’m all out of invitations.

" _Although_ ,” Pitch’s voice took on a thoughtful lilt, as Jack struggled and started. “I stand by what I said, all those years ago. I _do_  admire the cold."

Jack coughed onto the floor. Was that more blood? Rasped, ”What are you talking about?"

For the first time in over twenty years, Pitch Black turned his back on Jack Frost. The surge of hatred spiraled a wave of heat to Jack’s head, but it was only imaginary, only a phantom pain, like a ghost who still believed he had any warmth left to him. 

”I’ve found someone to replace you, Jack,” he announced, tall and serene, even as the shadows began to shift, take shape. “Someone whose heart has far deeper potential for darkness. Darker than the likes of you could ever imagine. And she, at least, may prove receptive to my house calls."

Ice split down Jack Frost’s back like a blade. A blast of power surged forth from his staff even before he was on his feet, but Pitch had disappeared again into the shadows, leaving the flash of ice-lightning with nothing to ricochet off of but dead, solid walls. His lungs tore open with the force of what it meant to _breathe_ again, to feel poison and oxygen alike fill his lungs, to scream.

"You… you won’t TOUCH her!”

The shadows pulsed. Jack recoiled as the press of the darkness seeped into his mind, washing through and _digging_ and slinking back into the black, and Pitch’s laughter, curious and amused, crawling over his skin.

“ _Oh_. How interesting, indeed… that your greatest fear is ever still my greatest desire. Not that it usually isn’t,” he chuckled, “but… this one is _far_ more interesting.”

The blood thickened in Jack’s dry, desperate mouth. “I’ll vanquish you,” he spat, words and blood alike. “I promise you.”

“Yes, yes, so many promises these days, aren’t there? And so many _great_ fears… Tell me—is it everything you dreamed it would be, boy? The Belief and attention? The power? Their _love_?” Jack hissed and shut his eyes, trying to close out the searing pain inside his chest. Something gurgled inside Jack’s throat, cold and sticky and copper, and in his ear, a whisper, a voice, a feeling, “ _And now you have so much more to lose._ ”

Pitch’s laughter echoed through his bones, his skin, the poisoned air, nothing but darkness, but Nightmares, was this _real_ , and then finally, Jack couldn’t tell the difference.  
  


. * * * .

  
When Jack awoke, it was with no knowledge of how much time had passed, or what had happened. His blood had dried and his cuts had healed, but the snow globe was broken, and Jack wasn’t a Guardian with the kind of magic needed to fix it.

One second he was down in the pitch black cavern, and then he turned, and the next he was above ground, in the forest again, staring at the empty clearing where there should have been a bed, or a hole, or a demon. It took seven hours to fly to Toothiana’s palace. 

He was officially well-past the point of panic and exhaustion when he landed in an ungraceful sprint on the open floor of her balcony to the stricken faces of his comrades, of Tooth and the fairies and the yetis. Bunny was still on Berk. Sandy was still in the highlands. North was in Arendelle.

“You escaped,” Toothiana whispered, holding him tight, as flakes of dried rust fell from his skin, but not from his hair, not from his clothes. “I’m so glad you escaped.”

Jack’s tight smile would not hide the tension in his frame as he pulled back, nor would he want it to. “More like… released.” Toothiana’s eyes sparked with knowledge, and all conversation of Jack’s well-being ended there. “Tell me what happened.”

It’s shit.

Two days gone. The coronation. The—the _reveal_. Oh god. The mob, the chase, the escape into the mountains. He missed it. He—missed _all_ of it. Everything.

Because of Pitch.

Wounds both old and fresh tore open. His grief was quieter now; his frustration and rage, more refined, more controlled, more precise, but the wounds never healed, the scars never closed, and here they were now, with Pitch Black’s words and laughter ever ringing in his ears. “He’s after Elsa.”

“I know,” Tooth whispered, cautious and watchful, like he might run away. He might’ve, once. He had. “We know. Jack, he’s—he’s already been to her, in the mountains. Jack, wait—stop, and listen to me. We don’t know what he’s said to her, or have any proof that he’s _harmed_ her, or that he has any intention of—”

“ _Intention_?” Jack spat, tight and rigid and _controlled_ , isn’t that funny, _oh_ , isn’t that hilarious, “The bastard has every intention of warping her fear to his own, and has already invaded her space at _least_ once, and you want to try to claim that maybe he hasn’t _harmed_ her?”

“We don’t know what he wants with her—”

“We know exactly what he wants,” Jack hissed. “He wants what he’s wanted ever since he saw my powers, and what’s stupid is that we _should have known earlier_ , but what do you know? The Fear Lord gets a new fucking toy to play with and gets to fuck with me in the process. Another point to the Bogeyman, add it to the ever-growing goddamn list.”

“Jack, all of the pieces are only starting to come into play. We _don’t_ know.” She hesitated. “Look, there’s something you need to see. This is _highly_ unusual, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and by _desperate_ I mean—“

“Tooth, don’t you get it? I fucked up. Again. I wasn’t—I could have fucking been in Arendelle! Do you have any idea what—I could have been there!”

“You chose to honor your obligations to Hiro! You upheld your duty, you made sure he was safe—”

“ _I was on my way to Arendelle!_ ” he shouted. “I was headed—I was going to _be there_ , Tooth! And I got—I fucking lost it! Again! Just like the bastard says, every time! I’m never where I’m supposed to be!”

“Jack, there’s more that you don’t know, all right? I need to show you something, but I can’t have you—I need you to try to calm down, do you understand? There’s a way for us to investigate what happened on the North Mountain.”

Were those tears in his eyes? It was hard to tell through the quiet bout of mirthless laughter and the flaking blood. “What, the bastard hasn’t dropped by to brag about it yet? Rub salt in the wound? Maybe some of his new poison?”

Toothiana carried on. “You’ll explain that to me once we’ve finished what I’m about to show you. It’s still unclear what he hopes to do with the Assignments, if anything, or why the Assignments have reached additional Turning Points, and our best bet is to find out more from the only other individual that he’s contacted—besides you—in the last two days. Since Elsa cannot answer our questions directly, we must take a different course of action to gain more insight into the specifics of Pitch’s plan.”

Jack’s eyes took in the harsh angles of determination on Toothiana’s face. His cheeks felt wet, and dirty. “You can’t possibly be suggesting that we spy on her.”

“Not directly,” Toothiana held up a finger, and Jack’s stomach churned. “Just her Memories.”

The sickness grew. “Tooth, this is so fucked up. You haven’t seen Elsa as a child in over a decade. What the hell are some old baby teeth gonna do? Invade her private, personal childhood Memories just for some inkling of what Pitch _might_ want in the future? I’m not doing it. I can’t go back that far, Tooth, it would kill me. Do you get it?”

“I do. But Jack… haven’t you ever wondered what wisdom teeth are for?”

. * * * .


	216. - wisdom teeth - (pt. i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wisdom (in, from, and despite) Memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/2/16_. WHAT’S THIS? AN UPDATE? AN ACTUAL, REAL, LIVE UPDATE?
> 
> YES. Yes, INDEED. I am probably just as surprised by this update as you are. This particular update contains two chapters of wildly different word counts: the first is a mere thousand words or so. The second is over 16,000.
> 
> NEEDLESS TO SAY---this chapter set is essentially a year ~~three years~~ in the making. I HAVE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO IT literally since this story began, and probably even before that. Hope you enjoy it, thanks for all the support and comments and well-wishes and LOVE, I really reallyreallyREALLYREALLY appreciate it!
> 
>  **BETA’D** by the lovely **ABIGAIL** , my eternal support, who read through this monster despite not feeling up to par, and for whom I am FOREVER GRATEFUL AND BEYOND. ♡ 
> 
> [ [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com) ]

 

 

 

. * * * .

  
\- _wisdom teeth -_  
_(pt. i)_  
  


. * * * .

 

Jack stared. 

“What do you mean?”

Jack noticed a sudden thrill of anticipation in the air, most of it coming from directly above; the baby tooth fairies were overhead, hovering in anxious wait.Jack looked to Tooth for answers.

“Our duty is to the children of all the worlds within our reach. _But_ ,” she turned, and began making her way deeper into the palace. Jack was quick to follow. “Sometimes, when there are certain measures at stake, we also take the time and effort needed to secure the Memories of those who are… older.”

“Adults, you mean.”

“Not usually.”

Toothiana led him down a spiral staircase he’d traveled many times before—then opened a hidden door inside the inner-column that he’d never seen. A brief wave of mosaics overtook his sight—practically old hat, at this point—and suddenly they were in a new but familiar-looking cavern. _How many secret passageways does Tooth have?_

“Childhood and adulthood are constructs, and subjective ones at that,” Toothiana went on, leading the way. “Depending on the culture, the circumstances—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Adolescence is a concept that’s still relatively new, however,” she glanced over her shoulder at him. Jack tried to keep his frustration to a minimum. “It… allows for a fair bit of wiggle room, when we need it. And in the rarest moments, when a glance into one’s young adulthood Memories is needed… we can, let us say— _stretch_ the rules a bit.” Her eyes were very serious. “But only a bit.”

Jack’s lips curved, but not enough to become a grin. “Always a catch, right?”

“We are meant for the thoughts and hopes and dreams of _children_ , so to take on the Memories and mind of a human almost reaching adulthood, or just _past_ , it’s…rather draining. Our powers are not intended for such complexity.”

Jack considered her. “Like when you split too many times,” he remembered. “When you spread yourself too thin, and you trigger the… aging, or Guardian weakening, or whatever.”

“Not nearly as drastic, but... similar. We have only delved into this line of magic a few times, and it… takes a toll. We only resort to taking a deeper look when needed.”

“And when have you needed it?”

Toothiana waited until they’d entered the main chamber before answering. Unlike the other caverns, which were filled with jewels and gems and maps and magic, this space seemed almost… industrial. Utilitarian. Four rock walls, a rock ceiling, a rock floor… except along the expanse of one long, long wall, there were many, many miniature vaults. So minimal. So basic.

So many.

“When we think that an individual may need Memories not merely from the time of _childhood_ ,” Toothiana continued at last, “we host their wisdom teeth: the hindmost molars in most humans, which typically don’t appear until around the age of twenty. Give or take a year or two. Almost never do we look into the wisdom Memories, _ourselves_ ; most often the individuals will take what they need on their own, using our special stores to guide them more effectively, but without any further assistance from our magic. This comes at no further cost to us.”

“It’s… only when we look _inside_ them, that we feel the brunt of it?”

“Yes.”

Jack considered this. His jaw tightened. “ _All_ of us?”

“It affects _whomever_ looks inside them,” she answered. “Our magic is not meant to be tangled with such things… In viewing such... _experienced_ Memories, we toe a line when we enter realms of feeling and emotion that do not pertain to the purpose of our powers, and—it has an impact on us. Not permanent, but… we feel the effects for a time.”

“Sounds like some unreasonable mumbo-jumbo about inexplicable magic laws, all right,” Jack tried to grouse, and glare, but the truth was that his stomach was starting to churn.

“While the baby teeth host a wide collection of Memories, the wisdom teeth hold only those that are the most integral or relevant to a person’s character development and, depending on the time of the extraction, often the most recent.”

“Wait… _extraction?_ ”

“Well—technically, speaking, _yes_!” Toothiana laughed at him suddenly. “But this is magic!” She shook his shoulder slightly, and the bout of nausea only grew. “Nothing so messy as what you are imagining, I am sure.”

Jack’s brain whorled. “Sandy helps you,” he began to think aloud. “Doesn’t he?”

Toothiana’s smile was slim. “We’re a team,” she answered. “Sandy lends me a special vial to take with me to get the job done.”

Better to not imagine it, he decided. “But isn’t she going to _notice_ that some of her teeth are, like… actually missing?”

“We’ve only taken her two lower wisdom teeth, and without much duress. She may notice, but the magic will help her not to dwell on it.”

“Is this magic or brainwashing?”

“A funny question from a funny Guardian, for another time. Now, let’s go. We should hurry.”

Toothiana floated along the rows, scanning the numbers on each lock. Would there be more golden boxes inside each safe? Would these cases have portraits of faces on them, too? Older, wiser faces, more in need of wisdom than the others?

“Remember, Jack,” Toothiana said, slowing to a stop in front of a section of tiny cabinets. “We have no real control over what these Memories bring, and although we certainly bear the consequences, we ourselves almost never get to see the rewards they may **reap**. We don’t know what we’ll find, or how it may help us. We just have to try.”

Jack’s attention was still caught on something. “Almost never?” he echoed.

Toothiana’s finger lingered over a lock. “Well… The last time, we did.” 

Jack looked curiously to the many vaults before him. They all looked the same. “Which one was from the last time?”

“That Memory box isn’t kept here, with the rest of the wisdom teeth.”

A feeling that had been tangling in Jack’s gut suddenly solidified. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Are they in the tower? With the rest of the baby teeth?”

“No.”

Jack dragged his eyes to meet Toothiana’s. “They’re in the Vault,” he realized. “They’re mine.”

The mix of apology and non-apology on Toothiana’s face was so familiar it’s a wonder Jack hadn’t adopted it for himself. “Yes,” she said. “Those are the wisdom teeth Memories that guided you to recognizing your place with us as a Guardian. The most recent of your human Memories,” Toothiana whispered, as Jack’s heart sank, “and, by no act of coincidence, the most relevant. We… stretched the rules, with you, a bit.”

Jack swallowed. “I thought you said wisdom teeth usually came in around age twenty?”

Toothiana’s lips pursed with the attempt at a smile. “Give or take a year,” she answered quietly, seriously. “And with your wisdom teeth… there was only barely the one.”

There was too much to sort through with that, and Jack’s emotions were pretty much spent, anyway. The abrupt sound of rock and metal giving way forced Jack to lift his head up, and what greeted him was the sight of a metallic-looking case in Toothiana’s hand, similar in shape and size and in every other way to the ones he’d been protecting for the last two decades, save for the color: silver.

The gems in the casing were silver and blue, all of the different shades of a winter’s night sky. Such a contrast from the usual gold, the mass of rubies and sapphires and stained glass that adorned the boxes he was used to. Was this the cold color of all the homes for all wisdom teeth? ( _Still precious, but not quite_ gold _?_ ) Or was it just for this one, only this silver box, only _hers?_

Maybe this was also the color in which his Memories _could_ have been encased, had he not died young enough, and naive enough, to host all of his Memories together with the rest of them, in shining, stupid, glittering gold? _What would you know?_ he wondered, reached his hand towards the silver case, and hesitated.

At the end of the case was a woman’s portrait. It was a face he almost didn’t recognize.

_Three years_ , said a voice, somewhere in the back of his mind, cold and sharp like fresh icicles— _an all-too familiar voice, too familiar; one that had been granted even deeper, more awful meaning by the events of not more than mere hours ago_ —and suddenly it was past a lump in his throat that Jack stuttered, “ _Tooth_.”

Her sigh was as shaky as his heart. “ _Jack_ ,” she whispered. She said the rest with her eyes. She handed him the case.

The weight was heavy in his hand. The metal was smooth and cold and accepted his chill with ease, let it spread over the plating like lace, like it welcomed him. Like it knew any better. Jack tilted the end up, staring at the painted portrait along the edge, at the woman inside the ring: her hair was a familiar pale blonde, as were her deep blue eyes, and the light dusting of freckles over her cheeks. She wore her hair in a braid. Her bangs were a mess. 

“Jack.”

“I just need a minute.”

But an eternity passed, and still, he was not ready. 

“I won’t be joining you,” Toothiana told him. Jack’s eyes snapped to hers, fingertips still hovering over glistening, shining silver. “I will also visit her Memories later, to allow us another pair of eyes to see what Pitch might be up to, but only after you’ve regained your strength. You will be the first to see them.”

Jack wasn’t sure whether to be grateful, or sick.

Another lump worked up his throat. “So how… does this work? I just… touch the case? Like last time? And suddenly I’ll see things?”

“Yes. When you place your hand on the box, the Memories that are most relevant or most needed will come to you from the forefront. Pay close attention, try to absorb as many details as you can. Neither North or I will be visible, because she doesn’t Believe in us, so you won’t be able to see Pitch either, but you _will_ be able to find traces of our presence if you know what to look for, and you’ll most certainly be able to see Pitch’s influence. That’s what you’re looking for… like with your own wisdom Memories, the visions will show you truths, but we must put the pieces of the puzzle together on our own.”

“And… when it’s all done? The Memories will just… stop? I’ll come back to myself?”

“And I’ll be here,” Toothiana reassured him. Funny. He wasn’t really aware that he needed to be reassured. “The magic will pull you out when you’ve seen what you need to see. I’ll keep watch.”

“Great,” sighed Jack. “So you can be here when I throw up in the end.”

“Funny, Jack.”

His fingers twitched above the silver. “I thought so.”

“Jack,” she said, a few long moments later. “It’s okay.”

Jack breathed deeply, and set his hand upon silver stars.

. * * * .


	217. - wisdom teeth - (pt. ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside the Memory Box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/2/2016_. Oh, hi, yes, here's another chapter. Is this one also 1,000 words, more or less, like the previous one? Perhaps a 300, 400 word drabble ficlet chapters, like most of the chapters that make up this story? Oh, no. No, no. Somehow this monster spiraled into existence in the shape of over 16,000 words.
> 
> (Do you recall that [post](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com/post/148634584172/hello-lovely-i-was-just-wondering-if-there-was) I made on tumblr back in August? The one which said:
> 
> "i have been working on ATC pretty steadily! however, i’ve been inspired by a long-time favorite WIP fic of mine, which updated for the first time in YEARS. the author suddenly dumped like TEN CHAPTERS all at once, totally out of the blue, specifically for us binge-readers. i’ve been inspired to try something similar, haha. so while the updates are coming, i am purposefully holding off until i feel i have enough to provide a fic dump of the same caliber!"
> 
> Remember this? Remember?!?
> 
> WELL NOW IT IS TIME.)
> 
> ENJOY THE 16,000+ WORD CHAPTER UPDATE. ♡
> 
>  ~~(p.s. shoutout to jonathan who casually stated earlier today that i 'never update things' and then won't even read this damn chapter until tomorrow, anyway, THANKS, MAn.)~~ never mind, he read it, lol.
> 
>  
> 
> But for real, this chapter has been at least a year in the making. ♡♡♡  
> (I hope you feel as much reading it as I felt writing it.)

 

 

 

. * * * .  


_\- wisdom teeth -_  
(pt. ii)  


. * * * .

 

Before colors or shapes or movement, the first thing Jack recognized was noise.

There was music. Jack could hear a small orchestra playing something small and humble, even before the magical stained glass— _blue and silver?_ —began to dissipate and his world shifted completely into the realm of Memory. The music was smooth and lively— _an upbeat winter’s waltz, he realized_ —and filled the space in his chest with a nostalgiathat both soothed and _reminded_ and constricted his heart. It felt light years away from the dank pit of Pitch Black’s cavern. Or even a few million miles away from Toothiana’s looming warehouse of wisdom teeth.

As the shapes of silver and blue began to shift and merge and fall apart, Jack realized that he was standing in a crowded ballroom, adorned with a royal crest. He was in Arendelle. 

Jack’s chest expanded and shrank with the pounding in his head. People were dressed in all sorts of finery: milling about, talking in lowered voices and loud voices and wide-bearing gestures. Jack turned his chin, twisted his waist, spun on his heel—the ballroom was brimming with life and celebration and activity. It was… uncommon.

When one of the party guests stepped back into—through—him and a flash of blue light rippled through his forearm, Jack inhaled sharply but did not jump back. _Shit_ , he scoffed, absently rubbing his forearm and glaring at the gentleman’s retreating tailcoat. “Definitely haven’t forgotten how much I hate that,” he muttered, and grit his teeth. He forced his gaze back to taking stock of the room. Where exactly was he?

Or when, rather.

Unlike inside his own Memory Box, in which Jack had been directed straight to the most important scenes of his own mind—“ _I was a Guardian!”_ like it was that goddamn easy—the memory box of the Queen of Arendelle seemed to have created a puzzle in which the pieces were a bit more… subtle. Even after a full minute of actively looking around and wandering through the ballroom a bit, Jack thought it appeared as if he’d simply landed in a heap of background characters—into the scenery. No matter which way his gaze swiveled, Jack couldn’t seem to find the center of the Memory anywhere. 

“So what makes this Memory Box business so different?" he shouted out to the ceiling, voice rising well above the sway of music and the chatter of guests. The question went unanswered, clearly, but he didn’t expect one; it was intended for Tooth, and it helped to believe that she could at least hear him.

At first, Jack didn’t bother to move very far. Right from the start, from the spot into which he’d materialized, Jack could already see that there was so much more detail in the scope and space of what existed inside this Memory Box. His own Memories had been vivid, yes, but limited to his immediate surroundings… Had that been more of a testament to Jack’s own limited perception and perspective? (How shit- _awful_ his memory really was?) Was the power of this vision linked to the strength of the wisdom teeth… or to the impeccable memory of the beholder? 

Whatever it was, it landed Jack in the peripheral of a memory instead of at the center. So that’s what Jack had to find. The center.

“Isn’t the universe _freakin’_ hilarious,” he muttered, slow and thick with resentment, and then nearly gagged when a woman passed unexpectedly straight through him from behind. 

Another human’s unknowing pass through his shoulder immediately after that had Jack groaning outright, though his frustration certainly had no effect on his surroundings. When a familiar, irrational, unavoidable anxiety began to take root beneath his skin— _when the sight of painted snowflakes began to press at the back of his mind_ —Jack took a deep breath and reminded himself of the most important thing:

_Jamie Believes in you_ , he thought to himself, drawing strength from it. _Lots of people do_ , he thought, _but especially Jamie_ , because it never hurt to remember. 

Jack took a long moment to watch as the Memory-wisps of the party guests stood and swayed and danced and strolled about the dance floor. He breathed in and out, rooted and grounded to the ballroom floor, until he was certain he did not mind when they occasionally passed through him with a gentle spark of blue. They were only shades, only characters inside a Memory, _and adults, besides_. Just Memories. Not real. He moved on.

Embarrassed by how long it’d taken him to adjust, Jack marched with renewed determination toward where he knew the platform to be. This must have been the reception ball after her coronation, he realized. This was the party. In which she received her guests’ well wishes and congratulations.

The new dread he felt in turning towards the thrones’ platform was short-lived, however, because it only took a few moments of observation to recognize that the Princess— _Queen_ —was not yet at her station. Without meaning to, Jack turned towards the curtains that shielded the grand entrance on the far side of the ballroom. A flash of his own memory struck him, from however many years ago, of holding onto cold hands and ragged breaths, of the worst possible timing. Jack’s gaze focused on the sliver of space between the drapes and the wall… was she back there, watching?

There was another lump in his throat. 

Or perhaps it was still the one he’d felt as he’d parted from Toothiana, and it had never really left.

 

*   
  


A few more minutes of aimless wandering proved fruitless for his search, but not… totally without consequence. 

Jack scowled at the walls, at the tables, at the champagne flutes held aloft in guests’ hands. He resented all of it. Was this what North and Toothiana had spent observing the whole night? The pomp and celebration? The ignorance and opulence? Jack resisted the urge to freeze the wine in their glasses, to muss up their finely-decorated hair. He took a small moment of delight in envisioning how funny it would be to see their tongues stuck frozen to the silver rims of their fine champagne flutes. But then Jack remembered— _you’re not supposed to play those kinds of tricks anymore; you haven’t played those tricks in decades; you’re sensible now; you’re a Guardian_ —and sighed himself back into being sensible. He hated having to ruin his own Fun. 

“Can’t do anything, anyway, Frost,” he muttered, deliberately waving a hand through someone’s wine glass. He grimaced. “They’re just part of the Memory.”

_You’re not real._

Jack’s jaw tightened as he twisted to scope out the rest of the room, again. He’d been waiting, but he was beginning to expect that soon he was going to have to venture out of this room to find what he was looking for. The problem lay in all of the distractions. Every glance tore open another memory, every sight and sound reminded him of another stupidly cliché wound that had scabbed over into ugly twisted scars. 

(Jack recognized the conductor of the orchestra. _He saw_ —he saw Olga standing next to Pavel at the back wall, giggling with one of the cooks, who looked new, who looked like she didn’t know or understand any of the history of the castle or its inhabitants. The walls were lined with Arendelle's delicacies, with sweets and treats and desserts and _lemon cakes_ all layered and tiered on fabrics embroidered with floral designs that Jack Frost had not seen in ages.)

His gaze caught sight of the rafters; how long had he sat perched atop one of the beams during the introductory ball, watching the noble guests wine and dine and dance? How long had he spent wishing to be one of them?

His chest tightened. Rosemaling was everywhere. The drapes, the walls, the guest's livery. One guest in particular, a young woman sequestered off a bit towards one of the larger windows, was especially adorned in rosemaling shades of vibrant green—

"Oh," said Jack.

Oh. 

Anna had finally found the chance to wear her dress.

_Or maybe one just like it_ , he wandered closer, breathless, weak-kneed, trying to better see her face.

She was staring thoughtfully out the window—or at the window? That didn’t make sense. She was waiting by the window, not talking to anyone. _Is she waiting for something? Taking a moment to let it all sink in?_ Jack took a step closer. 

With each step, Jack caught more details: the ribbon in her hair. The streak at her temple. The layered fabric in the straps of her dress. The number of new freckles that dotted her cheeks. _It’s probably a lot, isn’t it?_ The evening; not the freckles. _This whole day? This party?_ he thought, knowing the useless depth of such an understatement. _It must be overwhelming_ , he wanted to say, to show that he _knew_. Probably better than most. 

Again, he took in the room at large, then the sight of a single Princess who had drifted off to the side of the ballroom, a spring wallflower with summer flowers sewn into her dress. _Why aren't you dancing?_ he wanted to ask, almost beside her, nearing the window. But his throat was caught by the expression on her profile, by the thoughtful gaze reflected in the sharp image on the windowpane. Jack’s jaw twitched and wobbled. It was like when she used to play by herself outside in the snow, in the gardens. Like when she was nine-years-old and used to fall asleep outside of her sister’s bedroom door, huddled against the hardwood, and he would carry her back to her room in his arms.

She should have been dancing. Jack opened his mouth to tell her so, to say, _look how much you've grown_ , to say, _this is what you've been waiting for, for forever. Go dance_.

But then Henrik swept into view with a dazzling smile and two fine silver-rimmed glasses of drink in his hand, and Jack's stomach hollowed out in one fell swoop. 

He watched as Henrik handed a drink to Anna, all familiar charms and grace. Confusion mixed with alarm fast enough to make Jack's head spin, and then he realized that the sideburns he saw—weren't really those of Sideburns at all.

_A relative_ , Jack thought, no question. Probably a brother, but maybe a cousin. The revelation was enough to calm the race of his heartbeat, but not enough to remove the slow churning in his gut.

Jack stepped back, ignored the burn in his throat. “Spare me these Southern Isles heartthrobs,” Jack scoffed forcefully, rolling his eyes and reluctantly turning away. With another huff, he called out over his shoulder, only half-ironic, “No funny business!” and meaning it, but also knowing that Anna’s burgeoning, belated love life was not supposed to be the point of this Memory. He wasn’t gonna be nosy—no matter how burningly, deathly, disastrously curious he was—and Anna, of all people, deserved the chance to do whatever the hell she wanted tonight, without any walls or prying eyes or judgment, or. Or whatever.

But he still threw one more parting glance as he ventured off, and the flavor on his tongue at the sight of Anna’s genuine, merry laughter tasted uncontrollably of bitterness. 

 

*

 

He was headed toward the sweeping curtains of the grand entrance with a pit in his stomach when a prickle at his neck forced him to face the back corner on the lower ballroom floor instead. This very feeling had become a low-key staple of the evening: an intermittent, uncomfortable, scratchy sensation, reminding him that _this used to be yours_ , that he _knew_ these walls, that he used to want nothing more than to break them down. There were many memories here that Jack had let slide into the background over the course of three years. So many discomfiting sensations, so many unwanted pieces of deja vu.

The sight of the servants’ passage to and from the kitchens tickled strongly at the back of his neck, deep below the surface, like an itch that couldn't be scratched. When he turned away from it, the sensation intensified, suddenly screaming of _more_ than nostalgia and resentment. Jack looked back towards the servants’ entrance once more, drawn to it, _annoyed_ by it, and his eyes caught movement behind the decorative drapes adorning the archway, allowing the illusion of separation from one part of the castle to the other. He could see that Olga was barely visible from behind the edge of the frame, speaking with someone obscured behind the edge of the wall. Olga was bowing her head, wringing her hands—and then Elsa stepped forward into view.

Jack took a step closer. And another, and another, and stopped.

Her crown gleamed in the torchlight. The regal purple of her cloak was dark against the rich green of her skirts, against the pale skin of her sharp cheeks, her nose, her forehead—the only visible skin, even when he took two steps closer. Her hair gleamed in its coil: the elegant, perfectly-crafted, expertly-twisted rope that curved around her temple, that housed the base of her crown, the one that spoke of years of practice and teachings from a previous Queen and _Jack_ , she’d said slowly, as if speaking to a skittish animal, _My hands are still shaking too badly. I need your help to braid it and twist it properly—_

Jack swayed on his feet, and his staff ruptured a gentleman's sternum in a blue flash of light. He didn't dare let his feet leave the ground, in case he flew away altogether, and even after his feet rooted themselves into the hardwood, the lightness in his head did not dissipate. The feeling of cold, gnarled bark suddenly against his forehead helped to fight away some of the worst of the dizziness, and so did closing his eyes. 

Elsa, the Queen.

When he opened his eyes, she was clearly preparing herself to venture back out into the crowd of diplomats and emissaries. He wouldn't have to take any steps closer; soon enough, Elsa would make her way towards him, and all he would have to do is follow. Forward? Back? The universe was absolutely hilarious.

_Hilarious_ , he swallowed, bitterly, without the energy to bite.

But Jack would play along and do his duty and go where this Memory Box apparently wanted him to go. Just as long as they didn't get too close.

And as she neared, there were so many things that Jack would have liked to have said to her—or to this shade, this whim of a Memory, this wisp of who Elsa was this night, but not _her_ , not really. 

_You were wrong to send me away. Things never got better, did they? Don't you see what you've done to yourself? What your parents did to you? Are you happy now?_ even though, Jack’s eyes narrowed, it clearly wasn't so. His throat grew tighter.

What came out instead, when she reached the point of his shoulder, was, "You would have had fun tonight,” he murmured dispassionately, “if I'd been here."

For a moment, Jack thought almost thought he saw her step falter... his breath caught at the implication, but that sort of thinking was stupid. Her composure was as tight as her collar. Besides, even if she _had_ faltered, it would have been any of the other million, trillion reasons for why she so clearly, clearly anxious and tense and miserable— _but no one knows, do they? they can’t see a thing_ —this evening. This was just a Memory. This wasn't real. This had already happened. He hadn't been there.

So he followed her at a safe distance, and watched what had really happened in the ballroom in Arendelle while he had been trapped and bleeding and unconscious and poisoned on the floor in Pitch Black's lair.

"Still haven't learned how to mingle," Jack's impatient, aggravated sigh floated past her shoulder while she made nice with some persistent Duke. From the conversation, it seemed that this was not the Duke’s first attempt at drawing her Majesty into conversation this evening. The Queen was all grace, but Jack could see the tightness at the corners of her eyes, her mouth. She'd gotten better at hiding her dread, marginally, Jack supposed, to the untrained eye. And yet… ”Still don't enjoy one minute of this, do you?"

He watched her weave in and around the crowd, which parted for her and flocked to her in equal measure. Slowly but surely, she made her way back to the platform. Jack got the impression early on that he'd missed the beginning portion of the evening. He must have been dropped into the Memory after she'd already been introduced, after she'd allowed herself at least one brief reprieve to rest ( _to_ _breathe_ ), and he’d only found her just as she embarked upon another round of greeting and engaging with her royal subjects and foreign partnerships. ( _Our alliances are... pacts, rather than tools of war. Of friendship and aid_ —)

By the time Jack shook himself of yet another alarming and unwanted flash of memory, Jack had already lost part of Elsa's polite dismissal of the Duke's inquiries about something to do with trade. Even with this little blip, though, Jack could sense probably just as well as Elsa how little bald man in question had thinly veiled his dissatisfaction in having been so graciously ignored. "Go bother somebody else!“ Jack threw after him, because all Elsa had done in response to his stuffy scowl was smile pleasantly and carry on. He would have liked to believe that the Duke's sulking was a result of Jack's barb, but that was just wishful thinking.

Also—he’d heard of this Duke before, hadn’t he? But whatever. Elsa got way too many letters over the years. Wasn’t his problem anymore, anyway.

After a time, Jack's eyes started to wander around the ballroom more than it actually followed the trail of Elsa's cloak. He recognized so many of the household staff. He recognized the dinnerware, the decorations. It was like stepping into his own convoluted memory. Everything was so familiar, and strikingly foreign.

Anna and the Henrik-brother were nowhere to be seen; he had a suspicion that Elsa's wandering gaze was just as curious for a head of red as his was, but hey. Jack wouldn't presume to know what Elsa was thinking these days.

"Okay, Tooth," Jack murmured. "I get it. Elsa is a Queen now. She did it, she got the crown, great, got it, now when does it all blow up in our faces?"

Jack's attention was abruptly drawn to the way Elsa's attention stole to a corner of the room, towards one particularly large window. One that had Jack's throat welling up.

"Excuse me," Elsa dipped out from a conversation that was already nearing its end, and Jack followed behind in a surge of blue flashes, plowing his way through the crowd while Elsa strode out, unimpeded. Jack frowned as she made her way to the window. When they came close enough, it was clear that the glass was just as intricate as the last time he'd seen it. Elsa didn't get too close, and Jack wondered why—was she trying not to stray too far from her own party? (Was she afraid of her nervous breath shocking the glass with ice on a midsummer night’s eve?) 

Because she, too, was remembering gifts of lace and frost?

Jack swallowed hard. He was half-tempted to recreate the handiwork, maybe even if only out of spite.... did he even have powers in a Memory? He doubted it, hadn't even thought to try, but the urge to spread icy ferns over the panes was such a palpable coating on his fingertips that he almost thought he just might.

Jack’s jaw tensed, and he turned away, refusing to watch any more.

*  
  


Jack was actually starting to feel a little bored when Anna reappeared, Henrik-Sideburns-Brother-Boy in tow. Elsa was politely accepting the well-wishes of two diplomats or other, he didn’t know, it was all the same, and he had never really be interested in all the bureaucratic drivel even when he was interested in Elsa. Jack bit the inside of his cheek, as if it might tamp down on his bitterness. He felt ready to do something stupid. Even if it wouldn’t matter, per se, in a place like this—best not to let it win, anyway. 

Anna called out to Elsa in such a way that even Jack winced, which, all things considered, was an uncomfortably terrible feeling. He wasn’t used to feeling embarrassed _for_ others, and definitely not for polite, well-mannered, guileless _Anna_. Elsa excused herself from her surprised well-wishers as graciously as she could, and then Jack watched as the evening progressed into even more awkward territory. It wasn’t easy to watch Anna trip over her words like this, no matter how big the hearts in her eyes were. Jack stood off to Elsa’s right, unimpressed with the whole thing on more levels than one, and found himself glaring balefully at the Southern Isles kid before Anna finished his introduction. He cocked his staff over his shoulder and leaned over to Elsa as apparently-Hans bowed, all self-important grace, and viciously muttered, _“Can you believe you almost married this guy’s brother?”_

Not say that he _knew_ they were brothers, for a fact. But he would have been hard-pressed to believe otherwise, and Jack needed something else on which to fixate his pounding, furious heart. His jaw twitched, struck by the realization that he’d inadvertently dredged up another memory—of sixteen-year-old Elsa standing at her platform, overlooking the crowd of the dance floor, keeping straight faces while he leaned close and whispered insult-nothings about her inadequate suitors in her ear—and Jack fell silent.

Anna and the brother— _Hans_ , apparently—were stumbling over their words, both. Jack deadpanned, despite the discomfiting feeling that Elsa was watching them with much the same unimpressed, impatient stare, until: “—our marriage.”

Jack gaped. He blinked. His hand slapped his forehead, then dragged down to his mouth, and gripped his staff, all in the space of the time it took Elsa to compose herself, and manage, “I’m sorry, I’m confused.”

“Oh my god,” Jack groaned, while Anna trailed _on_ about details, or something, whatever. “Anna, you’re not _serious_.”

_Oh_ , but she was. If Elsa didn’t shake or strangle her sister, Jack might, because _are you kidding me, Anna_ , did she not hear herself? _What would your parents say?_ And that thought scratched out the rest of any rational thought Jack might have had, because his annoyance at himself was so strong, he couldn’t bear to hear himself think. 

But he knew, for once, what Elsa was thinking: Jack turned, lips drawn tightly, and watched the expression on her face shift, watched the recognition and understanding dawn in her eyes. _I did this_ , she was thinking. _I pushed her into this—_ because Anna had always been a romantic, and a dreamer, and a wisher, and here were all of the things she thought she’d always wanted, scooped up and form-fitted into a fancy pair of white pants, and Elsa saw right through the gold-digger and throne-crasher, but that was a real mouthful to say in a crowded party in which you weren’t allowed to emote or speak your mind or feel much of anything. 

Anna didn’t stop. Her mouth carried her faster than her logic could, and Jack’s own hair raised on end when Elsa’s alarmed “ _Here?_ ” echoed Anna’s impossible plans—to, what, have this guy _move in_? _—_ and that was where things started to feel distinctly messy, because this was neither the time nor the place, but Anna had never been _taught_ , of course, she had never _practiced_ , and Elsa wasn’t equipped to coach her, or guide her, and soon Jack and Elsa were gaping wide-eyed as Anna’s dreams spiraled out of control, out of their reach, and Elsa had to be the one to break it to her.

“No one is getting married,” she said, as calm as she could manage, and _isn’t that funny_ , Jack marveled, staring, _how much she still uses her hands_.

He missed the next few moments, but caught the part that seemed most important. “Anna, what do you know about true love?” she said, soft and tired and apologetic, maybe, but not enough to change her mind or give in, to any of it, because she’d worked _too hard_ to lose everything now, and wasn’t that just peachy, Jack thought, wasn’t that _just_. 

“More than you!” Anna retorted, and Jack’s wide gaze snapped to her face. “All you know is how to shut people out!”

Jack’s jaw slackened. This… this wasn’t… Jack turned to Elsa. _Do something_ , he pleaded, refusing to acknowledge the burn in his chest, the way this all settled so _wrong_ , because—because this wasn’t _supposed_ to be their reunion, the way they threw everything onto the table, out in the open. It wasn’t supposed to happen in a crowded ballroom. 

Jack’s gaze slipped to the patch of floor closest to the entrance, the small clearing between the hoards of guests. He hadn’t been there, when Elsa’s ice got too close to the younger daughter of Arendelle, the night when it stained Anna’s hair white, but he could picture it, here, in this same room, so clearly. 

“You asked for my blessing,” he heard, staring at the floor. The tile and wood and castle that was supposed to be home, that might have been, once. “But my answer is no.”

Jack stared. In his mind, there were two little girls skating over ice, indoors, leaping from mountain to mountain of snow. Were they laughing? There was a snowman there, too—a small, ugly sort of thing, the kind that he liked best, the kind that only a child at heart could love. 

“The party is over,” he heard, distantly. “Close the gates.”

“ _Elsa_ ,” he turned, haft-admonishing, half-pleading, but with no real purpose, and as his gaze twisted towards where Elsa was striding off, it occurred to him in a swell of bile that it was the first time in years he’d called after her. He didn’t like the memories brought up by that, either.

His attention stole a moment to the wall space behind Anna's right shoulder. He marched closer, coming to Anna’s side. There was... a twinkle? A flash of light, at the wall? A sparkle? What the hell was that? It looked bizarrely like a snowglobe on a shelf and— _oh._ Shit.

Elsa was walking away from them, and Jack was trying to figure out too many things at once, and when Anna lurched forward and ripped off her sister’s glove, Jack heard the trail of a stray memory in spite of himself, a bizarre, single word, in Elsa’s perfectly clear, amused, bell-like, teasing voice from a thousand years ago: _metaphor._

He was as little prepared as the rest of them.

"Oh," Jack's eyes went wide, and his hands flew to his hair. “ _Shit_."

Anna cut into her, and Elsa was barely holding it together. Panic coiled quick and sudden and tight in his stomach. It felt like ice in his veins—like the night Elsa had lost control, and he’d taken care of it the only way he ( _didn’t_ ) know how to, when he’d taken it all inside, bore the brunt of it himself, without meaning to but without hesitation, too fast and too cold and too much to hold all by himself. It felt sharp, and strong, and dangerous.

“Oh, god. _Wait_ —she doesn't know what she's doing," he hissed, to Elsa, yes, but also to himself, to Anna, to space between them. "She doesn't know any better—Anna, come in, _think_ about this!"

“Give me back my glove!” Elsa begged, her pain automatic, and then her eyes took in the wealth of the room, of the _scene_ they were making, and she straightened, she fixed herself. Jack's stomach lurched as Elsa turned her back on her sister, like so many times before, but so much worse, so much _worse_ —and the hollow, sick feeling returned with a vengeance, no matter how hard he tried to fight it off with the bitterness, with the sarcasm, it was always going to be there, wasn't it, this awful feeling of failure and loss and mourning for someone who was still very much alive. 

" _Anna!_ " Jack hissed, hand raking through his hair. "Oh my god. Anna, stop, you don't know what you're _doing_ —!”

“Then _leave_ ,” said Elsa, eyes shining, and Jack stilled, silent, stunned, the calm before the storm.

When Jack came to, Anna raged on, but Jack couldn’t listen, couldn’t _hear_ , because all he heard was _You failed, Jack—_ said by a voice very much like Fear, like the poison was still inside of him, still eating away, because now Jack could only recognize the voice for _whose_ it was, could hear the natural sense of dread and _survival_ transform more and more into the slow, presumptuous drawl of the Nightmare King; until it was less Jack’s own self-preservation and more the cruel haunting of Pitch Black, always there, always waiting, always knowing, always, always, always.

_You failed_ , it called, gleeful in Jack’s heartbreak, _and here it is._

Despite Elsa’s meager attempt at damage-control, there was a full-blown scene now—Anna had lost sight of herself, of who and where she was, of any respect she had for her family’s privacy or their kingdom’s reputation. God _dammit_ , Anna—in the space of less than two minutes she had practically undone all of the decades’ worth of careful planning and protection laid down by her parents for their daughters, had ripped open any sense of secrecy or privacy or mystery they’d foolishly tried to instill with their people, their allies, their potential _enemies_. And Jack had never cared for it, he’d never wanted it, but goddammit, they had _worked_ for this for _years_ , and in the span of a few, mere breaths, Anna was unraveling everything, _everything_ , they had ever hoped to protect.

And then _he_ was shouting, too, and Anna wouldn’t _stop_ , and Elsa was slowly, rapidly, silently shattering in a matter of a few single breaths, and just as Jack’s yelling grew and rose in pitch and desperation and _Anna,_ no—

Jack felt the change in the air before he saw the ice. 

He felt the distinct, unique way the air condensed and curled in on itself, made space for the ice that took shape—like it used to when Jack and Elsa conjured snowballs, or built castle models from the illustrations in her books, or the wake-up call he’d receive from an accidental nap—only.

Only instead of a gentle sigh, the air shuddered, like a sharp painful intake of breath. What spat back out was a barricade of spears and spikes, stabbing the air upwards and outwards towards Anna and the rest of the horrified party guests, with Elsa's outstretched hand still spread wide. Jack took in the length and shape and color of the spears—meant to harm, to keep back, to keep _out_ , to divide. Impossibly, his wide gaze found hers.

"They know," was all he said, was all he could think, amidst the murmurs and exclamations and gentle, horrified screams, because— _because_ —after years and years and _years_ , of hiding, of planning, of preparing, it still happened, _it still happened._

( _Like it always inevitably would,_  
_apparently,_  
_because his guidance, his presence, his magic_  
_had meant nothing,_  
_in the grand scheme of things,_  
_his Guardianship had never done what it was meant to,_  
_and Elsa was always doomed  
__to exposure, no matter how hard or long they fought_ —)

"Elsa," he heard, and realized that the voice belonged to Anna.

And Elsa ran.

" _Shit!_ " Jack hissed, kicking off the ground and surging after her, while the rest of the ballroom converged around Anna, heeding the dangerous spikes of magic that still protruded from the dance floor, but Jack rose above them all, and _flew_. Elsa was alone and panting in the long corridor that led to the front courtyard, and he knew that calling out her name was useless, but he couldn't help it anyway.

" _Goddammit_ ," he hissed, wiping at his eyes as Elsa shoved open the heavy doors with one gloved hand, and came face to startled face with the large crowd of townspeople lucky enough to have found an open place to stand beyond the unlocked gates. The cheering was deafening, and their joy—the freedom of the open doors, the heat of summer, the sight of their newly-crowned Queen—it was too much, he could see it in Elsa's bursting chest, in the wild, feral look in her eyes. Without his meaning to, Jack let out a gnarled, hopeless snarl.

"Elsa, what are you doing!" he shouted. "Get the hell out of there!"

And then, oh—the fountain. Oh, the curl of fear that twisted its way inside of him. God, _every single_ —almost every single fear he'd ever had for her, for themselves—each of them coming true, one by one by one, right before their eyes.

"Elsa, _GO_!” Jack shouted at her, hovering so close to her cheek that his breath would have cooled upon her skin. "It's not safe anymore!"

"Sorcery!" cried a voice from beyond the stone steps, and Jack turned toward the light. "Monster!"

“SHUT UP!” Jack snarled back, whipping his staff through the throngs of people with a wave of useless blue. "Shut _UP_!"

But Elsa was already running again, and even through all the townspeople crying and shouting and screaming, Jack could hear her panting breaths, her frightened heartbeat, and it didn't matter that three years had passed, or that a lifetime had been forgotten, or anything, because Jack's throat was raw and his soul was beaten and as he flew after her, his eyes burned.

Elsa made it to the threshold just as Jack heard Anna's voice call out after her, but he didn't dare turn around. He urged Elsa along, watching her cloak fly out behind her in a powerful flood of color as he tore through the air at her side, spitting out curses and “ _What was she thinking!_ ” and “ _What the hell are you gonna_ do!”

The fjord. The stupid fjord, what was she _thinking_ , "Elsa you never learned to swim!” he yelled at her. “What the hell are you gonna _do_ —polish your crown with some seawater? Find another way!”

But he watched. 

And he felt the significance: this moment, through the personal lens of Elsa's own memory... the way the moment slowed down, created an infinity in a single second. Jack watched the decision take shape in her eyes: a glance at the shallows, at the dark stretch of darkness before her, the open abyss of the fjord and the forest and... _freedom_. The way the first taste of _could-be_ freedom felt, to her.

And then her little flat pressed onto the water, and Jack choked, watched her little step spark a brilliant snowflake to life in a sudden floor of ice. (Her first deliberate act of magic in over _three fucking years_ and it was the first step to freedom, to escape, to running away— _metaphor_ , Jack’s mind screamed, _metaphor, metaphor, metaphor_ —)

She ran and she ran and she ran, her cloak spilling out behind her, and Jack didn't think twice about keeping pace, didn't take his eyes off her profile for one miserable second, except for the brief breath in which he allowed himself to look back—because _she_ didn't, she didn't give Arendelle a second glance, couldn't afford to—and saw Anna crouched and freezing in a heap of snow, with the Southern Isles boy hovering over her shoulder.

  
(And _shit, you had a plan once,_  
he thought, chest sparking with memory _._  
_You were going to show her, and make her remember!_  
_You were going to find a way to help her Believe  
__in Elsa._  

 _You were going to find a way for Anna to fix this—!_ )  
  


Too soon, too quickly, Elsa reached the obscurity of the trees. There wasn’t time for anything else—no planning, no thinking, just _running_ , just the swirl of too many unfinished, partly-formed thoughts. The world grew dark with the kind of blackness found only in the nighttime after hours of bright lights of celebration, and in every step, bound, leap, and ragged breath was the sensation of hiding, of escape, of shedding light and would-be trackers. Compared to the mess of the bright ballroom, the world became so suddenly silent, so suddenly deafening, Jack could only hear her panting, her footsteps crunching in the sudden blanket of snow, the whipping of the wind that rang about them. Jack watched the trees float by and watched Elsa storm through them in equal measure. She didn't falter, she didn't look back, she didn't pause.

Somewhere after the second clearing, Jack recognized the taste of bile. The aftertaste of horror, the fierce spill of disappointment.

Impossibly, after a mile or so, Elsa picked up her speed. Her shaky breathing became shakier. Her panting sounded more like barely-contained crying.

"What are you still running for!” Jack shouted out, but it came out warbled. "They aren't even close! No one could follow you!" The edge in his voice grew frayed.

The swath of trees began to thin. The layer of snow at their feet grew thicker, reaching halfway up to Elsa's knees, hidden by the flare of her green skirt. His hair ruffled with flight on its own, and his fingers longed to reach down and touch the snow. Could he actually feel the wind, or was it all just in his head? (Did he only remember what the wind felt like?) Was the wind real, here, for him, inside someone else's memory?

Jack glanced at Elsa's profile, still panting. How real was anything inside a memory, anyway?

"Ah," huffed Jack, bitterly, when he realized that the trees had grown so sparse that they were practically inside a clearing now. "Looks like we're not in Arendelle anymore."

He could only see a few trees dotted along the horizon, and the rest was brilliant white, with the mountains looming in the distance. The sky was dark, but the ground was so bright and the air was so thick with luminescent snow, it was hard to see how high they really were. Elsa looked straight ahead as her running slowed to a brisk walk, to a stroll, to a slow, weary, focused trance. She faced the looming mountains through the biting winds like he'd seen Bunny face the sky in the desert wastelands on the first rainy morning in centuries. The way Toothiana might sigh as the weight of another thousand Memories were loaded safely into their new stores and locked securely away. The way North looked at a name as he, for once, quietly and reverently debated between "Naughty" and "Nice,” with his quill held poised and aloft. The way Sandy stood atop a hill and overlooked a village of golden Dreams, and watched, because even he did not always know what would happen.

Elsa continued to trudge through the snow. Her pace slowed but did not stop, but her expression remained so abjectly forlorn that Jack began to wonder how much she really understood her surroundings at all. Jack looked around—the trees has disappeared ages ago. They were getting deep into the mountains now. The craggy cliffs weren't too far off. The snow beneath her feet was soft and fluffy and windswept, but there was strength beneath it, like the element below it went on for eons of time and space. The mountains were supposed to be a place of knowledge and wisdom, weren't they? At least, that's what Kristoff said the Trolls always say.

How long would she keep going?

"How far do you really think you have to go?” Jack asked her, because it felt good to get it out, to hear his impatience and anger float on the winds' cries. It helped to remember that the reason she couldn't hear him, see him was because this was a Memory—she wasn't real. His stomach turned. "How much longer will you keep running? You're already too far for them to follow… What more do you want?"

Elsa jerked her head up, her attention caught by something, and for a wild moment, Jack thought she might have felt his presence— _in the wind, maybe_ —even if she wouldn't hear him, because his question had been so much _more_ than he’d intended—but it was stupid to think that she could have, it must have been something else, and then he, too, looked up, and saw the North mountain.

And then a soft whisper carried on the breeze (“ _Frost_ ,” she said), and froze the breath in Jack’s lungs. 

Jack stared wide-eyed at her pale face. The air was so thin, even in the Memory, and he didn’t even really need it anyway, he didn’t need this, the pounding in his chest, the sight of Elsa setting sights for the first time on the tower of earth that had held her curiosity, her buried-down desire, her pillar of fantasy for so long. 

_I spent years here, watching over you,_ he wanted to call out, but his tongue would not have let him even if he’d tried. _This was one of my homes away from home, if I’d ever had one_.

“Did you know?” he panted, watching her take step by harrowed step, as the world began to rise, as they began the trek up the narrow, snow-covered mountain ridges. “That this is where you’d run to?” Elsa was too smart, too fearful not to have had a few backup plans lined up. Jack’s stomach grew hot. The back of his throat grew sharp with the taste of acid. “You told me you’d never run away,” he reminded her, looked on at her ceaseless climb, and felt resentment well so deeply in his chest it was an actual pit, dark and bitter and heavy and tight. “You said you’d never leave your duty or your kingdom or your _sister_.” 

But it was more than that. Because Jack Frost had always felt, in his heart, that if she did—and she _might_ —she’d have taken him with her. 

A shuddering exhale left Jack’s chest in one shaky, fragile noise. For the first time in hours, since she set foot on a frozen fjord and took flight—Elsa looked back. 

“ _The snow glows white on the mountain tonight_ ,” she breathed, the first glimpse of words in hours, in ages, and once Jack could hear over the sound of his own labored breathing again, he realized—they weren’t spoken. They carried a melody. 

Elsa was singing.

Jack turned his ear to catch the swell of the wind, in disbelief. “ _A kingdom of isolation—and it looks like, I’m the Queen._ ”

Her voice grew stronger, louder, caught him more clearly against the howl of the wind, a makeshift concert in the middle of fucking nowhere. Jack watched, mouth agape, as Elsa held herself in her own arms and carried her voice into the emptiness of the mountains, thinking, near incoherency, _No, no, not now. Not like this_. Not after years of waiting, of pleading and bargaining and wheedling and hoping and and and _this_ was the moment? After everything, after all that they had been through, she had never, not once, allowed him the opportunity, or the trust, or the privilege, to hear her sing.

Elsa only ever sang when she felt truly alone. 

He shook his head, glaring at the sky, glaring at Elsa, captivated in spite of himself, too selfish to turn away. “This is practically stealing,” he said, jaw tight, his own emotions barely contained, and in the next moment, Jack was forced to witness the precise note in which Elsa acknowledged the crack in her armor. Her shields were broken—the same ones that Jack had so reluctantly been forced—had _agreed_ —to forge. 

“ _Don’t let them in, don’t let them see,”_ she sang out, forceful and ironic, and Jack felt sick to watch the quake take place in her eyes, her expression as she spit back out the words that the King had so deeply ingrained in her. “ _Conceal, don’t feel—_ ” 

Elsa removed her other glove.

_Well, now they know_ , he heard.

“ _Let it go_ ,” she sighed the notes, and from her hand burst a perfect snowflake, which dissolved into a small flutter of bright crystalline magic. Behind the workings in her open palm, Elsa smiled. So unsure, and disbelieving, and grateful, and relieved, and—

Jack watched, eyes wide despite the sudden brightness before him, and Elsa’s voice carried on and on and on, growing in strength. She reached out, spiraling her wrist with a grace that spoke of years of _endless_ awareness of her hands, with a sort of wonder that he had not seen she was a little girl building fortresses on her bedroom floor—all the resolve, and none of the hesitation. She _pulled_ , and from the ground, the snow-magic spiraled upwards and outwards into—

_Are you kidding me_ , Jack stared, floundered, because there, in the snow, was Olaf. 

But Jack didn’t have time to question her. The sweep of her arm matched the rising pitch of her song. The flick to her wrist punctuated the thrill of another burst of magic. Jack stared, lost in the moment, filled to the brim with memories but without an ounce of presence of mind needed to consider them. Light and magic streamed into the air in giant sweeps and filigree swirls, as smooth and curved as the rosemaling on her dress. Power burst forth from her bare hands in heedless tendrils, unresting the snow from the surrounding banks and sending flurries and beautiful curves of magic sprawling over the mountaintop. For no purpose other than the fact that she could. Suddenly—she could. _You always could_.

_“I don’t care,”_ she called out, _“what they’re going to say. Let the storm rage on._

_The cold never bothered me, anyway._ ” 

Jack watched the regal cloak fly off into the dark blanket of sky, and disappear amidst the mountains. 

For a moment, Jack could not move. Elsa forged ahead, exhilarated, but Jack’s feet were suddenly stuck in the snow. He couldn’t move.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow.

*  
  


When he caught up, a minute or so later, Jack watched in silence.He watched the way she curled her fists and hitched up her shoulders in delight, the way she used to, before she was old enough to wear a crown; before she was powerful enough to wear the gloves. He watched as she took off running through the snow—such a far cry from the desperate sprint from an hour or so ago, across a frozen patch of fjord from her own castle grounds. He noted the way the white of her teeth actually showed through the break in her smile, the thrill in rushing to reach the edge of the cliff. Her eyes held a shine, and the moonlight gleamed along her crown, and her fingers danced free and bare across the midnight skyline. Jack found himself turning to face the sky, looking for the moon, who was only barely visible tonight, hidden behind clouds and mountains. Jack’s eyes narrowed; had a part of Manny always known, that this was how it was going to be? 

_She’s free now_ , Jack watched, stunned into stillness even as she reached the ledge of the cliff-fall. _Freer than she’s ever been_ , as free as he always _knew_ she’d be, if she would just get out of the castle, fly to the North Mountain with him, go see what she was really capable of—

Only, no.

Jack’s chest tightened. She was freer than she’d ever been to use her powers, yes, but was she happier? _No_ , he thought, then gasped, when the start to a magnificent staircase bridge materialized before her, in a giant _push_ of magic, so much grander and fiercer than the bits of magic that had already left her fingertips, the cascading swirls in the wind, the snowman. Jack eyed the fuzzy, frosty bridge reaching over the canyon, dubious in spite of himself. Was she _safer?_

_No._ She was less safe than ever.

Jack wasn’t just thinking about the dumb bridge—there were far more dangerous enemies at play, he wasn’t stupid, he hadn’t _forgotten,_ not for a second—but Jack also wasn’t blind to that long second of hesitation Elsa gave to ponder her newest creation before setting foot on the damn thing. _Slow down, Elsa, you’re just making this up as you go—you don’t really know how strong you are, none of us have ever known,_ _and wait, hold on, you’re not seriously going to go on that thing?_

Jack wondered why his chest felt so tight at the sight of the half-finished bridge over the gaping canyon when he also felt so reassured by the fuzzy inelegance of the messy trail of wayward frost along the railings. He was about to speak out, to ask her did she really _need_ to make it to the higher ledge, honestly, there were a thousand fucking mountains in this range, did she need to go up to _that_ one? And then another perfect, glassy snowflake sparked to life beneath her foot—the stray thought: _she doesn’t trust her hands_ —and the pillow of snow on the bottom step parted way, Elsa’s smile gleamed so bright against the black sky that Jack saw stars through the storm, and then she raced up the stairs in a flurry of sparks and light and magic, and Jack stood watching from the bottom, his heart pounding in his chest.

Until he rushed to float beside her, keeping in time with her race up the staircase and over the bridge, which grew and grew and grew. She might as well have been flying.

When they reached the top, he did not look at the perfect bridge behind him. Not at its crystalline flawlessness, nor its intricate design, reminiscent of the walls of in the courtyard proper in the castle of Arendelle, the structure so cold that the ice was practically blue. Elsa surveyed the snowy, flat plateau of the higher ledge—really _, did we_ need _to go up here?_ —and his mind started to drift off onto important matters, like where Anna might be, or what might be happening in the kingdom, or what her people were saying about their Queen—for how long he might have been unconscious, at this point, lying on Pitch’s dungeon floor while Elsa sang out her soul to the mountains—but then, he stopped. 

Elsa slammed her foot onto the mountaintop, and Jack stopped thinking for a very long time.  
  


*  
 

Jack vaguely understood that the ground was moving beneath them. He was rising up, even though his feet hadn’t left the mountain. It wasn’t quite like flying, but it was exhilarating all the same. He wondered if this must be what it was like to fly in an airplane, or ride a rollercoaster, or any of the other ways human, visible mortals of Jamie’s modern world tried to seek out the heights that they otherwise couldn’t attain. Jack stared, transfixed, at the enormous, luminescent snowflake that had become the floor beneath him, and realized that he was already at least four stories higher into the air. Strong, giant pillars sprouted from the ground in a fierce, efficient, seamless show of force, suddenly erected into existence all around the central snowflake, surrounding them. Walls began to fill the space between them, all layers and panes and panels of intricately-carved ice, so thin and fine that they were nearly transparent, like something from a dream, like something of Sandy’s incredible golden creation, only instead of golden and warm and _alive_ this was all and white and silver and cold blue, shining, shimmering indestructible crystal, stronger and smoother and more luminescent than glass. He could _feel_ the floor strengthening, thickening, creating layers and illusions and visuals within its structural reinforcements, everything beautiful and practical with no one single snowflake or crystal out of place, everything with a _purpose_ and a design, like each crystal was hand-picked, heart-drawn, and lovingly laid down into life. When Jack’s rotating gaze made it’s full sweep back around, Elsa was dancing.  

Her flats slid over the floor in elegant arcs. Arms swayed and floated with grace, then released bursts and sparks of ice in glittering trails, sending spirals of curves up pillars and chills of bright, sharp purple into the floor. 

And the stray thought: _She still bites her bottom lip,_ a breath escaped him, _when she’s concentrating_.

Jack’s head snapped upwards when she sent a shockwave of power up the pillars, and his gaze traveled the magic’s journey up to the wide-open skylight, which began to take shape and form into a ceiling, blocking the night sky from his sight. There evolved a crystallized chandelier _so_ intricate and expansive and detailed and complex that Jack couldn’t even properly appreciate all the fine nuances of the ice formations—and before it was even finished Elsa was off again, spinning across the floor and swaying throughout the room—because it was a _room_ now, a gorgeous, open, expansive room—a _palace_ —and Jack’s gaze fell back to the heart of it.

The Memory shifted. Time did not slow, but Jack felt the way that it did, had, for _Elsa_ —the way her heartbeat raced, the way the ice surrounding her carried her voice and resonated, the way her song exploded out from inside her chest—and the moment she gently pried the crown from her hair, and looked down at it.

“Don’t,” Jack whispered, without knowing if he meant it.

The crown soared through the air, falling somewhere unknown, unwanted, and Jack _tried_ to keep an eye out for where it landed, but then Elsa ripped a hand down the ties at her nape, ripped a hand through the coil at her temple, and Jack stopped thinking altogether. 

Elsa’s hand dragged reverently, intimately down her braid. With a gentle sweep of her hand, gone was the coronation dress, the traditional dress of Arendelle royalty, the green and black and rosemaling, and in its stead was everything Elsa had ever wanted for herself, the light and the freedom and the cold. The impracticality. The hundreds of painted snowflakes. The _colors_. The bare hands, the braid, the height, the sweep of ice behind her—following her, always, covering every step and floating behind her like a shadow. The bare _hands_ , the un-collared neck. The bare shoulders. 

Elsa strode toward the tall, open archway that led to a balcony. It was painful to look at. The bright sunrise, the vibrant pink sky, the way it curled and gleamed into the ice in shades of pinks and blues and purples and all things uncommonly heavenly, and the new trail behind her, the thousands, millions of ice crystals sparkling with magic and sunlight and power, of a Queen atop her fortress, and as Elsa cried out the final notes of whatever song she’d been keeping locked away in her heart, and the door slammed, Jack realized too late that he hadn’t followed her inside.  
  


*  
  


For a time, Jack didn’t try to fight his way in.  
  


*  
 

Later, after dawn had reached well past the peaks of the neighboring mountains, Jack took a deep breath, and sighed. In a turn of events that was in all ways unsurprising, Jack discovered that the giant, looming balcony window— _door_ —remained… locked. 

More than a bit later than _that_ , he finally found—in a moment so familiar and redundant that it was nearly unbearable—an opening into the fortress by way of a skylight window on the southernmost tower. He came into the castle through the _window_. 

“ _Okay_ , Tooth,” he called to the empty cavern of ice around him as he awkwardly crawled through the small, open skylight, annoyed at his own unexpected echo. (An _echo_? So was he physically here or _not_? Stupid Memory-realm physics. When all this bullshit was done and over, Tooth was going to _explain_ what the hell happened to him in here.) “That’s enough, now!” he shouted, further irritated by the half-hysterical trill that had bled into that last bit. He cleared his throat. “I’m done now! Let me out!”

Toothiana, naturally, did not hear him. Or heed him, even if she had. He hadn’t really expected her to be able to do anything—his own Memory Box hadn’t spit _him_ back out until he’d learned what it’d wanted him to learn, after all, no matter how fiercely his mind and body had initially protested the experience—so. 

It was worth a shot.

Because his skin was itchy. It itched like it wanted to peel, like he’d been in the midsummer sun too long, like he’d gotten too close to heat and it scratched up and down the insides of his throat. Like his eyes were watery and burning, from summertime. His skin was still cold to the touch, when he checked, but the urge to crawl out of it was still outrageously strong. 

“You _know_ ,” Jack called out, into the icy walls as he floated down into some… spare room? Where even was he? Anyway, it helped to be able to shout things out again, because he’d just spent the last hour or so in almost complete silence, both _before_ the dawn and after it, and he wasn’t okay with it, _he wasn’t_ — “Let the record show that when I jumped through time and space into my _own_ Memories, shit wasn’t nearly this complicated to sort through!” 

  
( _But shit hasn’t even started yet_ , Jack thought darkly, nausea churning,  
because at the back of his mind were words like _he’s already been to her, in the mountains_ and _have any proof that he’s harmed her_ and—  
_House calls_.)  
 

Jack swallowed it down, and traveled deeper inside. 

One room led to another. After passing through at least a dozen identical, bare, empty spaces—just as Jack was wondering why on earth she would _want_ so many rooms, aside from the presumption, perhaps, that it was simply because she could _make_ them, and therefore, _sure, why the hell not_ , she’d already upped and given herself so much else in the way of impractical, she was wearing _heels_ —that he realized:

There weren’t any doors between them. 

Jack slowed to a stop, lingering a moment in an archway separating two empty, unused, seemingly purposelessrooms. What was she planning to fill them with? Who was going to use them? And then a deeply-seeded and slowly-growing fear began to spread, the one that sounded like, _Who is going to live in them?_

Elsa? Alone?

Skin tight, frown tighter, Jack lifted his bare feet from the icy floor. It wasn’t long before the labyrinth took him to a staircase, and then another, and once he reached the bottom of them both, he found himself at the top of a grand central staircase inside a magnificent entrance hall, and when he looked closely enough at the panels of ice that were walls, he saw that there was the slightest bit of overlap of two panels on one wall off to the left, a visual illusion which, when broken, revealed a gap that contained a mostly hidden passageway to an adjacent room—the central snowflake, and the familiar door that led, presumably, back to the balcony.

“Hidden passages,” Jack muttered, trying to cover up the obnoxiously loud beating of his heart as he slipped through. “Really? A little _much_ , Elsa? It’s not like, you’re going to have any trespassers up here, trying to barge their way…”

Elsa wasn’t in here. 

Funny, how three long years wasn’t enough to break over a decade of habit of _worrying_ , to still the split-immediate shock of panic in not being able to find something where you expected it to be. On paper, in theory, it might have made sense, but in _practice_ , Jack had spent the last three full set of seasons _actively doing everything in his power to bury down_ —

“This is why people shouldn’t have hidden passages!” he shouted out, brash and aggravated and a little closer to desperate than he’d like. He was too loud for his own good, especially for the pounding in his head, for the echo of the central hall. A glance around the giant room did nothing to quell the unease; the walls were too high, the ceiling too tapered, the snowflake too grand, _like a prison_ , like a beautiful, ornate prison, cold and tall and regal and elegant, but an even bigger, fancier, hand-crafted _cage_ , goddammit, where the hell was she?

He paced the circumference of the room, looking hard at each panel. So she liked the illusions, did she? He washed down the wave of bitterness. _If I were Elsa_ , he began, and ignored the words that inevitably trailed after, the _I would never have bothered with this bullshit to begin with_. He replaced it with, _If I were Elsa, and I wanted to go somewhere where nobody would be able to follow_ , because apparently running off across a harbor and into the forest in the middle of the night then up a goddamn mountain and then up the goddamn _mother_ of all mountains and building a fucking ice castle on the stupidest high ledge you ever did see across a flawless deathtrap of a _bridge_ wasn’t enough, wait, where was he going with this?

_If I were Elsa, and I didn’t want anyone to find me…_ it would be because she needed rest. To recover.  
  


( _The library_ , he thought, then pushed it away. _No libraries here_.  
_The window_ , he bit his cheek, then blinked it away. _Not this one._  
_Her room_.)  
 

Jack widened his circle so that when he paced along the circumference, he could reach out and trail his fingertips over the walls. For as beautiful as they were to look at, they were even more beautiful to _feel_. Jack frowned, pausing at one particular panel. She placed as much attention and consideration into the inner-workings of each panel as she did for the outside… No one would be able to appreciate the extent or depth to her magic, he realized, throat constricting. This was insane. This was _art_. It was a three-dimensional sculpture a thousand times over, the inner-workings of an imagination that had been growing and stifled and fostered for a decade, the most detailed curiosities of an architect with very little inhibition, with all the resources she could ever want. Jack’s palm flattened over the panel, reaching deeper.  

It was like looking inside of her mind. 

Jack’s hand fell away. He resumed his trail. The edge of his staff scraped over the walls, leaving no traces, no marks, no scratches. 

He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse.   
  


*  
  


When roaming the central room in useless circles was beginning to feel like a greater metaphorical context for just how fucked up his mistakes _really_ were—and then getting really mad about it, because who the fuck called out their own life metaphors as often as he did, _come on, Frost, this is_ lame—the tip of his staff caught on the awareness of something that he hadn’t noticed before. 

High above—much, much higher than any human could jump, or _climb_ , especially with these ice-slick smooth walls—there was a geometric groove in the design that appeared darker, the same as all the other geometric shapes that adorned the other five panels that housed the Room of the Great Goddamn Snowflake. Only _this_ design wasn’t merely darkened with shadow from the depression of a few mere feet; the groove in the ice extended much farther, into an invisible hallway, completely hidden from anyone standing at this height. Jack’s flat glare pinned itself to the opening. With a huff, he rose into the air, almost all the way to the ceiling—enough that the circumference at this level was considerably less than at the base of the grand room. The hallway went on quite a bit, and the walls of ice surrounding it were so thick that the entire space was a deep purple, with hardly any light let through. When he saw the long, plain, decoration-less, dismal hallway that stretched out before him, Jack frowned.

She must have used her powers to create a way for herself to reach this height, then gotten rid of it as soon as she was done with it. It was obvious, in retrospect, and Jack wasn’t sure what annoyed him more: that he seemed to be so far behind in reading Elsa’s thoughts, or that he, too, seemed to be falling into an unfortunate pattern of underestimating her. 

He knew he was reaching the final steps—and the other side of the palace, probably—when the little square of bright, bright light at the opposite end grew bigger and bigger, until it expanded into the clear view of what appeared to be a bedroom, much like one he used to know. 

Only not.

Jack gingerly set foot inside: there was a small drop-off from the deep purple of the corridor to the bright white and blue of the bedroom. A quick glance told him that it _wasn’t_ that similar, after all, but the feeling was eerily, uncannily familiar. The four-post bed and canopy. The chair beside it. The writing desk. The chess board. All made of ice, clear in both touch and feel and color. 

The window. The window seat. 

Jack stumbled a bit as his other foot came to rest on the bedroom floor. The fireplace was still in its spot—an ironic twist, in his opinion—but it had no firewood replica to fill its empty hearth. The floor, with what Jack was coming to believe was a bit of a trademark snowflake, was not covered with any of the familiar rugs. This hurt, for some reason. He caught himself wondering, stupidly: where was he going to sit? 

He didn’t look at the window again.

But after he resolved not to do so, he realized a very key factor: where in the hell was Elsa? 

“You’re really going to make me chase after you?” he sighed, aiming for a scoff but sounding too tired for his own good, so he twirled his staff and hitched it over his weary shoulder. “Inside your own Memory? _Again?_ This is the last goddamn time I lose sight of anybody in one of _these_ , I swear to…”

Elsa, in a twist of unexpected fate, was hidden behind the far side of her bed. She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the mattress and covers of ice and snow, with her shimmering arms wrapped around her knees, covered and blanketed with shimmering skirts. Her face was hidden amongst them. Her bare shoulders were shaking.

_Oh_ , thought Jack, as his staff slid off his shoulder, down to his hip, and onto the floor. 

His knees followed, and down he sank, onto the cold and unforgiving surface of a snowflake, and thought about how history had a really interesting way of repeating itself, how Jack always seemed to make the same mistakes over and over and over, how he was still her Guardian, whether she knew it, or liked it, or not.  
  


*  
 

Whether he did, too, he realized, was irrelevant.  
  


*  
  


Jack watched the day wear on. Elsa began to come to terms with her self-imposed isolation, and it wasn’t easy. 

Elsa didn’t speak—she used her hands to interact with the world, to create and shape and fill these empty rooms with pretty things, with impractical things, and the more Jack watched, the angrier and more frustrated and sick he got, watching Elsa play by herself in a castle all her own, that she’d created from bottled-up hope and anxiety and curiosity. Her braid sparkled with stray snowflakes. Jack’s hands itched all day long. 

Jack spoke to _her_ , tried to fill the silence that wasn’t dotted with sounds of snow and wind and crystals shimmering into life. He told her about Anna—about how she was probably _out there_ , trying to figure out where she was, _looking for her_ , looking for an explanation and so ready to throw an apology at her older sister’s feet. Her kingdom was without her, clearly, and who knew what was going to happen to a bunch of townspeople who watched their newly-coronated Queen fly off into night. 

Jack never did see where the crown had fallen. 

They wandered from room to room. There was always something more to make, some detail to fix, and it were those the habits and quirks _screamed_ at Jack to retaliate, to drag her back outside, to demand _more,_ to remind her that she deserved _more_ than this, to ask _What will you eat? How will you live?_ and _This can’t be how you want to spend the rest of your days? Filling up cold, empty rooms with your magic?_

As Elsa created yet another gorgeous chandelier, Jack reflected that while this wayward escape plan of Elsa’s _might_ have rendered Anna safe, technically-speaking, for the moment—in the most generous, gratuitous of technical speeches—Elsa most assuredly was not.

“You have to go back eventually,” he told her, when he couldn’t take it anymore. “Like. You know, I know, we all _know_ that this is just temporary. Right? You were scared, you ran—you _had_ to, but this can’t be forever. You can’t live like this.” 

It sounded a little too close to Anna’s line of thinking, in retrospect. To the mess that started this whole predicament to begin with, in the ballroom. 

No one was around to hear his indelicacy, however, so Jack shut his mouth and watched as Elsa coped and coped and evaded, because she was allowed to do so in a way she’d never been allowed before, because she was making incredible, useless, amazing things, because Jack _couldn’t_ begrudge her this, could he? This brief respite of freedom, however limited or real or fake or lonely it was. 

“Okay, Tooth,” he repeated, weary. “I’m done now. Let me out.”

But she did not.   
  


*  
 

Jack was sitting at the window. It was a stupid idea, but he did it anyway. He kept waiting for Elsa to come and join him. 

But hours wore on, and the sun trailed lower in the sky, and soon the explosive bursts of magic slowed into gentle swirls, into a few beautiful sparks, into prolonged nothingness. Elsa sat at the cushioned chair by the fireplace. She sat at the chessboard, atop the single ottoman she’d created. She stood near to the window, and gazed outside, but did not sit. She stood beside her bed, staring at the headboard, but did not lie upon it.

Jack stopped speaking his thoughts. Everything felt too loud, when Elsa hadn’t spoken all day. They could hear the wind—the way it sang, the way it howled, occasionally—but the rest was just deafening ice, all thick walls and solid silence. 

The sunset was beautiful. It was just as gorgeous as the morning rise had been, only it was scattered with stars and clouded moonlight and a deceptive sense of calm. It was beautiful, and they watched the whole thing. It did not carry the same sensation that the sunrise had.

Jack sat at the window, stared at his knees, and wondered what on earth he was still doing here. 

  
( _He knew, of course.  
__He hadn’t forgotten._  

 _But he’d been waiting for Pitch to rear his ugly influence for over a decade now, and it wasn’t getting any easier, it wasn’t—_ )  
  


“I have to go back and get Anna, obviously,” was what he said at last. “But I already knew that from the beginning of the Memory, when you ran away from her. I think I already knew that, even before.” He’d had a plan, once upon a time. “I was gonna show her that you had magic,” he revealed, to no one. “That she used to know about it. I was gonna see if it woke up her Memories and brought them to the surface.” Jack leaned the back of his head against the wall behind him. “Guess the hard part’s already over, huh?” 

Elsa stared at the stars and the moonless mountains beyond the window, bathed from the only light in the room, the gentle glow of the surrounding ice, and did not answer him.

Right.

“All right,” he sighed, feeling it all the way into his bones. “I was missing in action for two days. The first night was clearly you running away and building yourself a fancy new castle to hide in, so. There’s that. The first day was all about you… practicing your magic and avoiding the fallout. All right. The second night, I assume, is when old man Bastard-Shadow-Ass is going to come and…”

Elsa, he realized, had not slept. 

He sat up. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes wide. “Elsa. Why the hell haven’t you slept? You left your _coronation reception_ to fly into the mountains and spent the whole night climbing and constructed a goddamn castle with more magic in a matter of a half an hour than you’ve ever used in your entire life. You’ve been letting out magic all day. You should be, like, fucking _delirious_.” 

Jack got up from the seat from the window, alarmed, thinking back to everything that he thought he knew about humans and their self-defense mechanisms and adrenaline and the not-so-nice effects of sleep deprivation. “Oh my god,” he paced. “How haven’t you crashed yet? Why won’t you sleep? _Can_ you sleep? Have you tried?” His step faltered. “Is _that_ why you won’t go to the window? Because if you do, you’ll fall asleep? _Elsa_.”

He dragged both hands through his hair in the loudest groan of the day, glaring at her pale-faced stare into the dark mountains. ( _Past_ the mountains?) He was pondering, and glaring, when his hands reached the back of his head, at the base of his skull, and found a dry, tangled mess. When he pulled his hands away, flakes of dried blood clung to his fingertips.

Very slowly, a chill trickled down Jack Frost’s spine. 

He kept very, very still. In the space of one breath and the next, he became irrevocably aware that something _else_ was inside the room. 

Of its own volition, his reluctant gaze turned towards the bed behind her, absorbing the meager glow of light that encased the room. The glow emitted from everywhere—behind them, above them, below them, the walls, the floor—it cast no shadows. The light wasn’t strong enough to. 

As Jack became more and more aware of his own breathing, its labored sounds and struggles, Jack’s eyes scoured the room for any trace of movement or presence or or or _something_. What was he supposed to be looking for? Tooth hadn’t _explained_. Jack held out his blood-crusted hands and held still, darting his gaze towards every darkened corner, to every would-be shadow space, but the room was still so _bright_ for all that it was dark, and Jack couldn’t quite reconcile the two, or decide where to look, or where to throw his guard.

“Whatever you are,” said Elsa, crisp and clear, like the snow-covered horizon against the midnight black, and Jack’s gaze snapped up. “You don’t belong here.”

Nothing moved. For a terrible, awful moment, Jack wondered if she might be speaking to him. Sensing _him_. But no. 

Jack took a step back, took a better look at the room around them. Pitch was _here_ , god, he could _feel_ it—and Elsa. _Elsa_ could feel it. 

Jack’s breaths became pants as the implications of that began to fully take root, as Jack realized that _this_ was the moment the Memory Box had been waiting to show him all along. That Pitch Black had made good on his promise, had followed through with his threats from his cavern, had followed Elsa out onto the North Mountain after _years and years and years_ of the Guardians having kept her safe, when Jack was _indisposed_ , when the Guardians were otherwise engaged, when the rest of their world was crumbling down all around them, _this_ is when Pitch finally wormed his way into her presence, the way he’d probably always fucking _planned_ to—

“You _bastard_ ,” Jack spat, checking every corner, every empty space. His steps retreated backwards, until he was almost at the wall, with eyes narrowed and mouth grim. His staff was still leaning against the wall by the window, so he yanked it into his grasp, adopted a battle-ready stance before he even knew what he was doing. 

And then an impossible, impossible voice: “ _And do you?_ ”

A soft noise escaped Jack in a shuddering breath. 

Jack didn’t even see the shadows emerge. One moment he was pleading at Elsa’s profile—please _, Elsa, get_ out _of here_ —and the next there was a dark figure behind her, barely visible in the corner of Jack’s eye. Elsa turned on her heel the moment his presence solidified, slow and calculated, but it wasn’t making sense, it wasn’t making _sense_ , and when Jack’s burning gaze found its way to Pitch’s dreadful, impossible expression, his whole body erupted in an explosion of movement and noise and hatred, but it had no effect, no consequence, and when he reeled back in he was left panting, his frantic gaze darting between Elsa’s cold glare and Pitch’s expectant, condescending grin. 

In a gesture so disgustingly transparent it almost made Jack hurl, Pitch Black swept into a low, reverent _bow_. “Your Majesty,” he said, soft like a shadow, and Jack _snarled_.

Elsa did not react. “Elsa,” Jack pleaded, swallowing bile and fear and god knew what else, “Elsa, this isn’t a _dream_ , okay? He’s—he must be using your lack of sleep to his advantage, he must be tricking you into thinking it’s a delusion or something, he just— _don’t go any closer_!” he shouted, stepping between them as Pitch took a deliberate slow, step forward, as he swept out his hands ever-so-slightly, in a mockery of welcome or greeting or _safety_ , this was wrong, this was so wrong, how was he _doing_ this? “Elsa,” he pleaded, growing more and more frantic, the bow of his staff pointed towards Pitch, and Jack drew forward, as if this might ward him off, prevent him from coming any closer. “This is _real_ , this isn’t a dream! He’s using your exhaustion to lure you into—into _seeing_ him because you’ll think it’s just—a nightmare!” Jack snarled in disgust as he lunged forward at Pitch’s chest, and his staff sparked right though his heartless chest. Pitch didn’t flinch, but Jack had to use the staff to keep from falling to the floor, his knees suddenly, inescapably weak.

“No welcome for your guest?” asked Pitch, wry with his disgusting humor, steepling the tips of his fingers towards her, like an _arrow_ , and Jack swung his staff through him with a guttural, mindless scream. 

“Why are you doing this!” Jack roared. “It’s me, you want! Stay _away_ from her!” 

Elsa’s voice cut through him, enough to quell his rage only just long enough to allow him to turn back and watch the stony, steely expression harden her unforgiving gaze. It made him proud, and it made him terrified. “I don’t accept guests in this castle,” she told him, clear and smooth and even, and _how?_

Pitch tilted his head, twitched his lips _thoughtfully_ , briefly opened his stiff hands like a gate, closed them back shut. “Hm,” he murmured, nodding gently, “I suppose not much has changed?” 

Jack watched as Elsa’s eyes narrowed, as Pitch examined the room around them. He was still at least six five paces away, but it was too close, _too close_. This was her _room_ , this was where she was going to _sleep_ , and Pitch Black was inside it, he was standing between her and her _bed_ and the reality of it screamed through his bones like cracks and splinters filled with ice so cold it burned, he was going to kill him, he was going to destroy Pitch from the inside out if it was the last thing he ever _did_. 

“I expected that madness would come, eventually,” Elsa spoke gently, almost a whisper, but her words were anything but soft. Jack’s shoulders sagged with it, his ragged breathing almost drowned them out. “I just didn’t expect it would look quite like you.”

Pitch stared at her so hard it was nearly a glare, but only _just_. Was he offended? Jack hoped he took offense, didn’t know if that was _possible_ , if Pitch Black had ever even considered the gray of his teeth or the pallor of his skin or the black of soul, but _oh_ , he hoped that Pitch was insulted, a tiny, tiny silver lining amidst all the goddamn black. 

“Ah,” Pitch breathed, clucked his tongue and nodded pensively, zeroing his gaze on hers like he’d found what he was looking for. “Ah, yes... how _is_ Jack Frost doing these days?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

Jack refused to turn away. He glared at Pitch, so hard that it would have sent ice-spears through the sliver of gray flesh at his chest, but it did _not_ , so Pitch’s smirk took on a sickening quirk, something of a mockery of one step closer to a smile. Jack ignored the spasms in his chest. He used the ache to glare death and danger at Pitch, to watch this stupid Memory play through until the end, like he was supposed to, and then fly the fuck out of Toothiana’s palace so he could find him and tear him limb from limb. 

“ _Oh_... that is interesting, indeed.” Pitch’s head tilted, considering her more carefully. "See him much, do you?" he laughed, like a joke.

"My apologies,” she said, like ice, like she had anything but, “but I'm afraid I can't point you in the direction you’re looking for. Best of luck finding him."

" _My_ apologies," he said smoothly, ignoring her dismissal. "It appears that I have given the wrong impression; Jack Frost is not who I have come to see."

"I assure you,” she stated, cold. _“Your_ impression is already quite formed."

"Ah, yes,” he chuckled, and Jack hated, hated him more than anything, “but you see—that's the thing about shadows…”

In a blink of billowing, black smoke, Pitch vanished and, in the next, reappeared five paces closer, close enough that Elsa’s small, sharp gasp disturbed the shadows and smoke that swirled about him, close enough that Pitch’s downturned, mocking grin towered too close _too close_ above her upturned, gapingmouth. Elsa’s eyes widened, showing the first traces of true alarm, and Jack could only watch, horror ever rising.

"Rather terrible, isn't it?” Pitch whispered, delighted, soft like it was meant to be soothing, like a secret. “But so convenient.”

“I know you,” Elsa whispered, as her eyes swept lower, down towards the black edges of his cloak, the soot and the shadow and the darkness, while Pitch’s gaze bore hungrily over the crown of her head, of her white-gold hair. Elsa turned back to his cold, black, golden, hollow eyes, with impossible recognition. “I used to sleep in the moonlight, away from your shadow,” she said, hushed, amazed, accusing. “You're the reason I used to sleep at my window.”

The floor ripped out beneath him. 

Jack couldn’t muster the words. Couldn’t shake his head. He felt his empty chest, felt his gaze linger too long on the way Pitch’s mockery looked too much like a genuine smile.

“ _You’re the Nightmare King_ ,” she breathed, confused, and certain, and unforgiving. Impossibly, the room felt colder.

A peculiar gleam entered Pitch’s eyes. The lie of a smile that slid across his lips was thin. Jack was going to be sick. 

“Well done, your Majesty,” he drawled, and he sounded like he meant it. “We are no strangers, you and I.”

“You followed me,” she said, glaring at him carefully, still too close, still _too close_ , why the hell hadn’t she moved away? And then Jack thought back to the cavern underground, to Pitch’s stupid taunts, to the way that Fear had paralyzed him, but this wasn’t _like that,_ this wasn’t— “Why?”

“You've heard stories about me, I presume?”

  
( _But she hadn’t, she_ hadn’t _,_  
_because they, Jack,  
__made_ sure _—_

_She never heard his story.  
_ _She never learned his name._ )

  
“Every child knows Fear,” she answered tightly, eyes narrowed. 

“Yes…” he responded, quietly, intently. His eyes looked _into_ her, straight into her core, and Jack wanted to retch or _kill_ or tear the palace down, because his lying, disgusting, deceitful gaze was without malice but it was a _trick_ , it was without anything but frank observation, and understanding, and no apology, that he said, “Some more than others.”

“Is that why you've come, then?” she demanded, so quiet, so _strong_ and so fragile, he couldn’t take it, couldn’t weep, not here, not _now—_ “To admire your handiwork? To see the grown woman fall harder than the child ever could?”

“Your Majesty,” he admonished, and Jack gagged at the purr in his voice, at the show of _wounded_ disappointment Pitch bled into his tone. He was going to tear him apart. “No, you see… what I have in mind is much closer to... your _rise_ , if you will.”

Pitch Black’s eyes locked with his. 

Fear wrapped itself around Jack Frost’s spine like a vice, cold and all-consuming, and then Pitch’s impossible gaze was gone in the next sharp beat of his heart. _The bastard—! He knew!_ Jack didn’t know how, but this was _who Pitch was, wasn’t it?_ The lies, the planning, the calculation, the ever-reliance on Fear and mistrust and uncertainty and _anticipation_ , the bastard had _known_ that the Guardians would follow into her Memories, didn’t he, but _how did he know_ , did it _matter?_

Jack felt his insides swell with hatred, ready to _explode_ with ice and lightning and more loathing than he ever knew he had inside him, but he _couldn’t_ , and so all that could happen inside the Memory was that Jack grimaced and set his teeth and let his hackles raise as he burned into him a promise that he would pay, that he would regret this, that Jack would make him. 

Elsa’s brows had drawn together. She didn’t trust him—she was smart, she had always been so smart, but she was lost and too much had happened in too short a time for her to be able to see the truth of the madness that was happening right in front of her, to recognize this danger as something more than a heavily-drawn nightmare, and there was _no one here to send him away_ , no one to guide her, no one to fight him off, no one to tell her that he was making shit up to get her to listen to him, that he was _lying_ , that he was going to say whatever he thought would get under her skin the most, _was it working?_

The temperature in the room _had_ dropped, Jack realized. But the ice stayed where she’d put it, the snow and the wind remained outside, and all that was in the room was what she had put there, and the two, three of them, the lies and the hatred and the unraveling of truth and dark memories, but no magic, no flashes of light. _Keep it together,_ Jack begged, _you can do this_ — _send him away. Make him go away. Don’t let him goad you. Don’t let him make you use your powers, they’re_ yours _, control them—_

“You're going to take your time, aren't you?” Elsa whispered, the conclusion dawning over her bright features, so pale against the glow of the room, against the darkness that was the Nightmare King. “Have you come to warn me? To _gloat?_ ” she demanded. 

“Why should I warn anyone of anything?”

Elsa’s lips thinned into a straight line. “You’re the one who taught me that the agony of waiting is often worse suffering than the object of Fear itself.”

Impossibly, Pitch drew closer. His gaze bore into hers. Jack couldn’t breathe. “Is that what you learned last night?” 

Elsa didn’t answer him. “You're going to draw this out,” she accused, and she was so _angry_ , it gave Jack strength, it gave him hope, it— “You’re going suck out all that you can, little by little. Let me stay up here in my castle and drain me. Fill me up with nightmares and whisper all my worst insecurities into my ear,” she whispered, like a hiss, dripping with defiance, with resignation, and Jack’s hope began to flicker, his heart raced faster in his chest. Elsa’s voice was too soft, too willing to believe her own words. “You’re going make every terrible dream come true until Fear is all that's left of me, and then you’ll take that, too.”

Jack’s eyes widened, but Pitch looked just as amused as he did disappointed. “Do you really think you are of so little value to me, your Majesty?”

Elsa, _god_ , ever daring, raised a wry, incredulous brow. “What would the Nightmare King want with a Queen of no one?” she challenged, dry and resentful and unamused.

“No one?” Pitch replied, with astonishment in his awful voice. “I do have to wonder about the little kingdom at the base of these mountains. The one by the beautiful fjord? Surely they can’t be _no one_.”

Elsa stared at him coolly. “You think to threaten me,” she said, evenly. “By using them against me. By insinuating that you’ll help turn them against me—more than their own fears already have—and then manipulate them to come after me. Lure me out of my castle and rile me up, until I’ve lost so much control that I’ll do something reckless and dangerous, and hurt them, or give them even more cause to end me.”

Jack stared, open-mouthed. _No_ , his mind whispered, stunned. 

“An elaborate plan,” Pitch commended, nodding and pursing his lips and appearing thoughtful and it stung with so much condescension that Elsa’s eyes narrowed, that Jack looked nervously to air for stray snowflakes, to the window panes to make sure that it hadn’t been painted over with wayward frost, but Elsa held herself in check, and held her chin high. “And by all means, my first idea, truth be told.”

“But?” Elsa prompted, impatiently. 

Pitch looked down at her, expression slick with condescension, with the expectant promise of comeuppance, like a cat with its mouse, it was too much, it was _too much_. 

“It would almost be _too_ easy, wouldn’t it,” he declared, with conspiratorial familiarity, like a secret he’d been dying to share. “To lure you into using your powers in such a way… it would be simple, of course, wouldn’t it? As untrained and inexperienced as you are,” he tutted, matter-of-fact, while Jack bristled. “I could force you out into the blizzard with a mere wave of my fingers, send you running back to your kingdom before you even knew which way you turned, straight into your sister’s arms and your subjects’ torches, until they lifted you onto the pyre and died trying. It would be a fitting irony, no?”

Elsa glared daggers. Jack thought of ice spears and a barrier of frozen swords, erupting from a ballroom floor. And still, the room was quiet and magic-less, a dim, blinding glow in the middle of the night. _This is more than Fear_ , thought Jack, thinking back to Burgess, to the misunderstood simplicity of _bad dreams_ and _nightmares_ and childish worries. _This is personal_. 

“With a woman who’s already feared that very thing her entire life?” Elsa added at last, dull and and dry and exhausted, but bitter enough to reveal the smallest trace of the emotion she was _still_ caging inside. “I can’t imagine a more satisfying conclusion.”

Pitch’s lips quirked higher, clearly amused in spite of himself. Jack wanted nothing more than to freeze the look off his face—turn it all to ice, and shatter the shards. The lines of Jack’s grimace settled deeper into his face.

“Ah, but I am not one to waste, you see. And a waste it would be,” he said, and stared. Elsa held his stare, brows drawing downwards, and eventually she drew back, just a breadth, but Pitch noticed, and smiled awful. Jack watched, confused, and angry. 

“But you’re not scared of me...” Pitch presumed quietly, slowly, with a huff of something that was not-quite-laughter. “Are you, Elsa?”

Her frown deepened. She returned to her original stance, regained her footing, her voice. “I’m afraid I’ve got a bit too much else on my plate to worry about,” she glared, unimpressed, and _god_ , Jack missed her, he missed her strength, her missed her words, her light.

Pitch chuckled, with crisp, distinct breaths, ripping Jack from his thoughts, but Pitch wasn’t exactly pleased, and Jack grew wary. “You’d look Fear in the eye and mock him?”

“You are not Fear itself,” she whispered, like a hiss, and Pitch grew silent, and Jack watched, stunned by her knowledge, by her command of the words she wielded. “You are its shadow, its reins. You are the conduit, and Fear is your center.”

Jack choked on the air around him. _She remembers_ , his mind whirred, _she remembers this, she remembers,_ but what _else_ does she remember? But _no_ —that wasn’t the problem, Jack remembered, eyes burning, because she _did_ remember, she knew everything _, the problem was that she remembers but still doesn’t Believe._

Something cold washed over Jack’s whole being. Jack looked hard at the edges of Pitches silhouette. 

The problem wasn’t that she didn’t Believe. 

“She Believes… in _you?”_ he rasped, lip curling, chest _heaving_ , because _no_.

“Fear is with me,” Pitch replied, and his eyes regained that gleam, the dangerous one, the one that looked suspiciously gold. “And Fear will always be with _you_ , my Queen. You know this.”

Something about the way Pitch looked at her raised chills along Jack’s arms. There was something creeping at the back of his mind—a thought that didn’t want to be voiced, heard, acknowledged, but it was there, and it was awful. So awful it couldn’t be real, Jack wouldn’t let the possibility enter his mind, let the thought see the light of day, the dark of—

“Fear is a _prison_ ,” she snapped, composure broken only for a moment, but the air around them tightened, and tiny, sharp, crystallized shards appeared around them, contained and still and silent but _poised_. “And I’ve fallen to it, just like you always wanted. The best I can do is try to contain it, but never control it,” she accused, words dripping, eyes burning, and Pitch was _reacting_ to it, the shards of ice disappearing inside billowing, dancing shadows, feeding the cold as much as it fed from it, and the nagging fear at the base of Jack’s mind, his spine, it _grew_ , it screamed—

“No,” he said softly, almost tenderly, and Jack was going to be _sick_ , he was going to _tear him to pieces_. “You can _learn_. It is within your power, however you decide to use it. Use _me_.”

“Why would I try?” Elsa demanded, halfway to a sneer, and the ice around them began to move, began to _shift_ , and despite Pitch’s earlier claims Jack couldn’t help but feel that this was exactly what he wanted, a demonstration of her power, the _proof_ that he could draw out enough emotion to break past her shattered armor and walls and let out the storm she was _still_ trying to keep in.

“Because it's what kept you alive,” he replied, the trill of his tongue visible between his teeth, shaking with the power and stock he put into his own cruel, blinding words. “Fear is what keeps us _alive_.”

_Don’t listen to him,_ Jack begged, eyes wide. _Don’t listen—he twists everything. He’ll make you doubt everything you’ve ever believed, and then he’ll warp it until it looks exactly the way he wants it to, and then he’ll use you, like he wanted to use me, he only wants you for your powers—_ and Jack gagged, violently, when Pitch lowered himself down to look Elsa more clearly in the eye, to hold her gaze more closely, and Jack _knew_ , Jack knew what Pitch wanted, despite the impossible, despite the _impossible_ , because Pitch wanted Jack’s worst fears and _more_ , worse than he’d never imagined, nightmares he’d never had but _would_ , because Elsa was starting to look at Pitch Black not like a nightmare but like a source of magic, like he was something familiar, a pillar of darkness she dared not draw too close to but could not ignore, a voice she would not deny.

“Then why can't I start living?” she hissed, lips sneering, breath hitching—like shards, and Jack chest caved, useless and just as broken, and then.

“ _My dear Queen_ ,” Pitch whispered, tenderly, at once both condescending and awful and reverent, and his hand rose, hovering just at her cheek. _“Have you tried?”_

And then Jack felt the surge of ice that erupted when Pitch laid his fingers to her bare cheek, and darkness swept in, and Jack’s center was ripped out from the Memory, and in a rush of darkness and the jarring clash of silver-stained glass, the vision was gone.

. * * * .


	218. - don't move -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/17/16_. [happy jelsa weekend 2k17](https://jelsaweekend.tumblr.com/post/156845429464/jelsa-weekend-march-2k17-end-of)! this here is my first contribution for this round of **[@jelsaweekend](http://jelsaweekend.tumblr.com)**. the theme of this weekend is "end of winter," and today's prompt is: _cursed_. official tumblr tags include: **#jelsa weekend 2017** , **#jelsa weekend** , and **#snowtpnetwork**. go check out all the kickass works this weekend! ♡
> 
> (for those of you who keep up-to-date on my life-happenings—via [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com) or otherwise—thanks for all the love and support with my big move! for those of you who are out of the loop... since the last update, i have: completely uprooted my life and moved to japan, started a new job, started learning japanese, gone on too many adventures to count, and eaten my weight in udon. it's been grand. it's also been very busy, omg. writing has been pretty steady, but updates are sporadic! thanks for your patience! jelsa weekend will see some new material and some chapter updates, both! thanks again!! ♡♡♡)
> 
>  **BETA'd** by **ABIGAIL**. ♡

 

. * * * .

- _don’t move -_

. * * * .

Jack came to.

“Are you all right?” demanded Toothiana, as Jack struggled to rise up. A hand pressed against his chest, halting his attempts—he became aware of something soft beneath him, some sort of seat or couch Toothiana must have summoned for him to rest upon while he was out, because the rest of the world was too dark, too hot, too hard. She was telling him not to move too quickly, the effects would be delayed, don’t think too fast—

“It just went black,” was what Jack Frost spat out, his voice hoarse, the words scraping along the inside of his throat. He hadn’t felt like that before, had he? “He was with her, and then it was just black—”

“Don’t talk. Let’s move upstairs.”

Jack was vaguely aware of Toothiana gently prying his fingers away from the Memory Box, of little clicks and ticks of magical locks, of the weightlessness that came with being lifted up and wrapped around someone’s supporting shoulder, of being so heavy that even his fingertips felt like iron weights.

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t talk,” she echoed, and Jack obeyed her, for once, and watched beneath drowsy lids as Toothiana scurried them back through a mosaic portal. The sounds of little wings and cheeps filtered through the colors, in the breeze made by Toothiana’s wings.

. * * * .

“Jack?”

His eyes opened. He didn’t even remember falling asleep. Unconscious. His stomach tensed with the effort to sit himself up, but his body didn’t move.

“Don’t panic,” Toothiana hushed, and Jack held onto it, to the assurance he heard in her voice, because Jack was _panicking_. When his eyes rolled their way to meet hers, Toothiana was wearing her very best Guardian face, the one that meant I Am Not Going to Let You Do Anything Stupid, and seeing it amidst the exhaustion that he was suddenly aware of made him want to laugh. It hurt.

“Tooth,” he rasped, ignoring her little shushes of protest, ignoring the way his throat and chest all wanted to cave shut. “What the fuck.”

“You’ll be fine,” Toothiana told him, but he must have heard wrong, because he could have sworn that she said _fine_. This wasn’t fine, this was— “You’ll be able to talk without discomfort in a few hours, and you’ll be standing upright by this evening, probably, assuming your natural sense of healing wasn’t affected by whatever Pitch did to you in his lair, but it might still be hard to fly—so don’t overdo it, okay?”

Currently, Jack couldn’t _do_ anything. Let alone overmuch.

“Pitch—“

“Rest first,” Tooth scolded. “It won’t be useful for you to make it halfway through your retelling of the Memory only just for you to pass out. Drink this, rest _now_ , and wait for Bunny to get here before you speak.”

Another glass of that golden juice. What was this stuff?

“Drink more,” Toothiana commanded, and he did, and then watched his own mind slip back into darkness.

. * * * .

When Jack’s eyes opened again, Bunny was standing off to the side of some bed that Jack was lying on top of. He was absently twirling his boomerang over his claws.

“Your girlfriend drugged me,” Jack ground out, and tried to hide his wince with a smirk.

Bunny’s startled gaze lingered just a fraction too long, then slid into a matching grin. He slipped his boomerang into his belt and stepped closer, towering over where Jack lay. Why hadn’t he sat up yet? He didn’t think he wanted to try.

“Watch yourself, mate,” Bunny scolded, but the fondness gave him away. Just like that, Jack’s grin slipped from his face. “She’s the reason you’re still in one piece, I reckon.”

“Where’s Tooth?” he managed.

“Probably on her way. She set up sensors to detect when you woke up.”

 _Mm_ , Jack thought, and swallowed the hot coals that seemed to be lodged in his throat. Maybe they were cold? They felt more like shards of glass. Or ice. They were in his chest and his arms and legs too, and so heavy. His eyes felt warm and scratchy and his skin felt too tight.

“North confirmed that Hiro is okay,” Bunny sighed. “But… it looks like the little bugger might be reaching his Turning Point soon.”

Jack swore. The coals grew larger, and Jack fixed his eyes on the ceiling. Maybe if he didn’t think about them, they’d go away. They were in his head, too. Everything felt like it’d been emptied, and filled with shit that _hurt._

“We haven’t received any confirmation that Pitch has made his way back to Arendelle,” Bunny offered, although Jack hadn’t even been to that point yet, couldn’t think much past the foreign sense of heaviness that had intruded his body. A slimy pit of unease expanded in Jack’s chest. This was not good. “To be honest, we haven’t received any confirmations that he _hasn’t_ , but we have a strong feeling that he’s… waiting.”

 _For me_ , Jack inhaled deeply, to no avail. Sharp, sharp, sharp shards with every breath.

“Tooth,” he rasped, and looked at Bunny hard.

“Right. On it.”

It wasn’t just Tooth. It was Tooth and Bunny and Sandy. Jack lifted his head half an inch to watch as Sandy and Toothiana filed in—a small spark of shocked sand exploded over Sandy’s head when he saw Jack. It disappeared just as quickly, but Jack had seen it.

“When did the Memory begin?” Toothiana demanded before she’d even fully entered the room, and by the time Jack had registered her question, she was already sitting on the bed. “What did you see?”

Bunny helped him sit up, and Sandy conjured sturdy pillows of sand to help prop him up. Jack eyed him— _really? sand?—_ but it felt good to have his head above his shoulders again, so he wouldn’t complain. Now that he was up, sort of, he noticed that his staff was lying gently against the wall directly next to his bed. “Thanks.”

“The Memory,” Toothiana prompted gently. “Where did it start?”

 _In the ballroom_ , Jack thought, and when his heavy chin was too difficult to hold up anymore, his gaze lowered to where Bunny was holding his biceps, keeping him steady. _Huh_ , thought Jack. Was he really that weak?

“Pitch came and everything went dark,” Jack spoke, slow and gritty, like his voice was traveling up layers of gravel to find its way to the top. “What does that mean?”

“He probably sent her into sleep,” Bunny answered him. “The way Sandy does.”

That made sense. That was the worst fucking thing he’d ever heard.

“Into… a Nightmare?”

Bunny hesitated. “Not… necessarily.”

“No?” Jack insisted.

“Usually? Yes…”

“Jack,” Toothiana called him back, and Sandy gently tapped his cheek’s. “Jack, drink this.”

“I am not drinking any more of anything you give me.”

“This is different. This will help you stay more alert.”

He didn’t believe it, but Bunny didn’t give him a choice.

“Jack, where did the Memory _start_?” Toothiana was asking again, and Jack blinked away the sharp pieces in his eyes, the burning in his throat. “Where did the Memory Box bring you?”

“The ballroom,” Jack rasped, and after a few more attempts, it didn’t feel so useless. It still hurt, but at least now he felt like he _could_ breathe—not like every attempt was a fresh mystery of whether or not he would choke on his—wait.

 _Did_ he need to breathe?

“The trip into the Memories drained you,” Toothiana explained, reluctantly, and Jack wondered why she was acting so hesitant. “You’ve been… depleted quite severely of your magic. It will take time to regenerate.”

Jack swallowed. He tried to nod; in a detached, distant sort of way—that made sense. He tried to ignore the little voice inside his chest that was screaming. “How?”

“The same way we usually do,” Bunny answered, quiet but firm. “Through our Believers.”

Jack’s heart sank. “I’ve been absent.”

But Sandy shook his head quickly—a fox, a rabbit, an owl—they all appeared above his head in rapid succession. _You are safe_.

“It will just take a bit longer for you to heal properly,” Toothiana explained, apologetic. “Since you were attacked by Pitch, and currently only have three helpers. When I venture inside the Memories, my centuries of practice and my army will help me recover much—“

“Is—this always—like this?”

Jack watched as Toothiana paused from whatever she was doing to busy her hands. She turned to look at him. Jack stared back, and waited.

She looked very carefully at his face.

“No,” she whispered. “There was… quite a bit more power, than we’re used to.”

Jack waited for someone to explain. No one did.

The air felt very frail.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“First things first,” Toothiana scolded, and drew herself up. “North is awaiting your report, immediately. He’s waiting to make a move—so skip the details for right now. What did you see?”

It dropped him into the ballroom, he explained. He saw the afterparty. He caught what must have been a flicker of North’s snow globe, somehow, even though he couldn’t see them because they weren’t real enough in the Memory—

“What you saw was us trying to call you, I imagine,” interrupted Tooth. “Magic as powerful as the snow globe is hard to hide, even from non-Believers.”

Jack blinked. _Huh_.

“Then what happened?”

Jack saw the fight in the ballroom, he explained. The use of magic—powerful, dangerous, _fierce_ —in front of all the guests. He saw Elsa flee. “I saw her run over the fjord,” Jack’s throat was so scratchy, he needed to pause. Big, big sip. Finally, “I saw the same as you.”

But Tooth shook her head. “We didn’t follow her. By the time Anna saw Elsa run off into the forest, Fear was already spreading too thick through the kingdom. We had to provide damage control to keep them from turning into a mob.” Jack withheld a grimace.

“Anyway,” he said, for lack of anything better. He told the story one string at a time, without looking at grotesque design of the tapestry.

He followed her into the forest, to the North Mountain. He saw her shed her cape and dispose of her crown. He saw her use magic.

( _He heard her sing._ )  
He saw Elsa build a _fortress_.  

“You’re not surprised?” Jack deadpanned, staring accusingly at a nodding Tooth, who leaned back away from his frustration with an arch to her brow.

“She and Sandy have already been to Elsa’s ice palace,” Bunny reminded him. “How do you think she got the Wisdom Tooth anyway?”

Jack’s embarrassment was strong, but not enough to lessen his anger. “Pitch went to her the second night she was there,” Jack forged on, tried to control his breathing. It surprised him that every breath felt less and less like small, tiny knives, and tasted more like bile. “He was toying with her.”

Toothiana leaned close. “What did he do?”

“He—he was telling her all the ways that he had been planning to torture her,” Jack swallowed, and rasped a breath, and swallowed, and panted, and, “How he decided that it wasn’t good enough in the end. He wants her for her powers. He’s—he’s trying to lure her into believing—”

“Jack,” Toothiana interrupted, eyes wide. “Are you saying… that Elsa…”

“He came to her,” Jack replied, tight. “And she saw him.”

Toothiana’s eyes widened. He wasn’t looking at her, but he could feel her gaze. _All_ of their gazes. Their shock. The noisy gears in Toothiana’s head were already preparing an answer to his question, to his expectant, “Why?”

Bunny opened his mouth to speak, but Toothiana quelled him with a hand. “Maybe… at this point in Elsa’s life… it’s easier to Believe in Fear than anything else.”

Jack’s head shook. That couldn’t be all of it. It _couldn’t_ be. “She knew him, Tooth,” he said. “She’s known he exists all along.”

He let them absorb that. His jaw tensed until it hurt.

Finally, Toothiana tilted her head. “She reads too much not to have known about the _idea_ of the Bogeyman, I suppose,” she conceded, voice soft. “His legend exists in nearly every culture… even if he goes by a different name.” Toothiana paused. “ _Did_ she call him by name?”

Jack considered. “I don’t think so. Does that matter?”

“Maybe not,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“He’s been making her aware of his presence ever since she was little,” Jack explained, voice monotone, his whole body detached, his whole mind soul sanity far far far far far away— “This was the first time he’d revealed his face to her. But she recognized him. He told her he could help her with her powers.”

Sandy hung his head. Bunny stared, all numb shock and a frozen boomerang poised between two still fingers. Toothiana raised a hand to cover her mouth and said, “He’s trying to become her Guardian.”

Jack’s whole body recoiled. It _burned_.

“I mean—not her _Guardian_!” Toothiana took a deep breath, rattled. “That’s impossible. But he’s trying to mentor her. He means to—“

“Offer her what he tried to offer me,” Jack answered. “ _Cold and dark_ ,” he spat. “He wants her to join him, and work for him, so he can use her as another weapon in his arsenal.”

Bunny’s sigh cut through Jack’s grogginess like a knife. Uneasily, he corrected, “I think he’d rather she work _with_ him… I think he was thinking more along the lines of… partners.”

“That’s even worse,” Jack responded immediately. “He wouldn’t allow anyone to think they’d become his _equal_ —at least, not forever. He wouldn’t ever risk what happened between him and North ever happening again. It’s all about him, and getting back at us, however possible. He’s using her as a tool.”

He did _not_ like the glance Bunny and Toothiana shared with one another. Like he was missing something obvious, and were debating whether or not to tell him. It rankled.

“We need to get out there, and quickly,” was what Toothiana said next, before Jack could pry. “Find out how she’s doing. I have a few fairies keeping watch, but Elsa has been in a deep sleep for most of the day. Just because we can’t see anything doesn’t mean that there isn’t anything happening.”

“Did Pitch do that?” Jack demanded.

 _It’s possible_ , Sandy answered directly, which Jack appreciated, for all that the answer sliced through him. _But if he has been keeping her under, it hasn’t held traces of maliciousness. It’s also possible that Elsa’s body simply needs to… recover._

“Like yours,” Toothiana insisted, and—just like that—Sandy’s pillows disintegrated, and Jack’s shoulders were leaning against Toothiana’s certain hands, which lowered him down. “You have a few more hours yet before your magic will have regenerated enough for you to regain sufficient control of your full-body movements. In the meantime, I will go check with the tooth fairies in Arendelle.”

 _I need to return to the Highlands,_ Sandy bowed. He was already conjuring the sand needed for a plane beyond the window, and as he left he said, _I will report back as soon as I have word. When I left, there was talk of war._

“War?” Jack echoed, looking to Bunny and Tooth, who were busy tapping at their own snow— “Oh, shit,” he jerked, aiming for upright but only reaching a spasm. It sucked. Jack groaned. “My _snow globe,_ ” he gritted out. Fuck. He’d totally forgotten.

“We’ll get you another one,” Bunny answered dismissively. “North should be able to conjure up another by the mornin’.”

“ _Tomorrow?_ ” No fucking way.

“He won’t be going back to the North Pole until he’s done in Arendelle,” Bunny explained. “Rapunzel is hunkered down with Eugene in one of the Inns. She was supposed to be staying in the _castle_ , but seeing Elsa be chased out of her own home hit… pretty hard.”

Jack tried to picture Rapunzel, so excited and optimistic, watching a Queen she only barely knew ( _had been so looking forward to meeting_ ) as she destroyed her life in a matter of moments, as she ran from her crown and cage.

Jack thought about shorn hair and secret tears, and beautiful sunshine magic, which no one else would ever know about.

 

(— _because if they did,_  
_they would steal her again,_  
_they would suck out the golden sunshine_  
_until they’d used every bit of the  
last drop_ )

(Well, now they know,  
_he heard, and imagined torches and pyres,_  
_the whiteout:_  
_an endless, limitless storm,_  
_because there was no_  
_last shred, no final_ drop _of it,_  
_there was no threshold,_  
  
_there was only one way_  
_they imagined the end_ —)

“Damn girl doesn’t remember that she’s a newly-re-crowned _Princess,”_ Bunny was saying with a huff, and Jack blinked himself back. “Needs a bit more security than just a locked door these days, you know? Anyway. I am off to Berk.”

Toothiana halted him with a hand on his arm. “Did they find him?”

Bunny shook his head. “If they had, I’d’ve felt it. Still, I should go check on ‘em now. They’ll probably catch up soon, and I want to be there when it all goes to smoke.”

“ _Find_ him?” Jack echoed weakly, heart still pounding too hard from too-dark thoughts.

“The chief,” Bunny wiped a tired hand over his face. “Hiccup got struck down, and the Chief has been looking for him for a day now.”

“Struck _down_?”

Bunny gave the snow globe in his palm a gentle shake. For the first time all day, he gave an actual smirk. “Yeah,” he chuckled. “By his mother.” Then the snow globe erupted, and Bunny disappeared into what looked suspiciously like a damn tundra.

Jack turned incredulous eyes on Toothiana, who tried to muster up a smile. “It’s been a busy few days,” she pointed out, though she really didn’t need to.

Still. It made Jack wonder. “How long was I out for?” He was already feeling a bit more like himself, even if his body was weaker than the Hopemeister’s patience for red paint on Christmas Eve.

“You’ve been sleeping for some hours.”

“No,” Jack hesitated, thoughts scattered. “I mean…”

“Oh. Inside the Memory? Only a minute or so.”

Jack balked. “You’re joking.”

Toothiana’s grin turned sly. “That’s _your_ job.”

His lips twitched—it felt nice, it felt normal—but the brief burst of lightness in Jack’s chest evaporated.

“Tooth,” he said, with weight. “I gotta go back there.”

Toothiana’s light and warmth disappeared, too. Her face fell in a very familiar way.

“You do,” Toothiana began, already rearing up to give an apology, “but—Jack, I don’t think you… realize yet what this has done to you.”

A sick, sinking feeling coiled in Jack’s gut, just quiet enough to slam down his ease, stir up his nerves, build up his guard. “What do you mean?”

Toothiana rearranged herself at the side of Jack’s bed. It was annoying to have to keep looking so far up at her, since they took his damn sand-pillows, but she didn’t seem compelled to move him any differently. For a while, she didn’t say anything.

“You took an oath to be a Guardian of the Children,” Toothiana spoke, smooth and clear, like she was reciting a rite. Repeating a script. “To protect the children of the world, and use your magic to that end.”

Jack’s eyes searched hers. Eventually, “I did.”

“You did. And when you ventured into the Wisdom Tooth Memories… you denied that oath.”

“I— _what_?”

“Just for a few moments,” Toothiana hushed, firm but reassuring, gentle but severe. “It was barely a breath or two. But your center-magic recognized that _you_ ventured somewhere where it couldn’t follow, and it went searching for you… That is why these tasks drain us of so much life-force,” she explained, very intently, eyes sharp and clear and wildly calm. “It cannot find the place where you are, because where you’ve gone is so beyond the realm of childhood—of your center—and it it tries to reach _out_ for us, and follow us, for all the time that we are gone. It tries to ensure that you fulfill the oath that you took, which now… keeps you alive. Elsa’s Memory was particularly… _complex_. It’s also possible that your connection to Elsa created more space for the effects to expand while you were away from your center’s force.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Connection?”

“That she is your Assignment, I mean,” Toothiana answered, then paused.

(For a second, Jack almost thought he was about to hear the word ‘ _was_ ,’ instead.  
But he ignored it.)

( _That she is your_ —)

Jack swallowed past the coals in his throat. “So?”

“Pitch’s presence further impacted the experience, and how your being endured it. Having also just been attacked—so fiercely—and left unable to fulfill your duties for almost three, four whole days, it’s just… You have to understand,” she inhaled, “we have never experienced so many factors all at once. This is… This is unexpected. Your body’s reaction was more… intense. We weren’t prepared for—”

“Tooth,” Jack said, razor-sharp and paper-thin and glaring, “Just spit it out.”

“Jack, you’ve aged about a year.”

Jack heard her, but it didn’t make sense. It was like the bit with the snow globe, about having to wait until the fucking morning. Jack waited for her to go on. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“So does this mean that it will take me longer to start flying again? Because that’s not really a luxury we have, yeah?”

Tooth pursed her lips. He ignored the chill creeping around the base of his his spine.

“We didn’t notice the effects right away,” she went on. “In fact, we don’t think it was noticeable immediately… After you surged back into yourself, and the magic started to catch up to you, the process was quite like what happens after I Split. It's the curse of it."

"O... kay. But," _you're still fine, aren't you?_ "So we learned something new then, yeah?"

"Jack, the thing is—by the time we noticed it, the effects had already demonstrated the brunt and begun to slow down, or else we would have... tried to interfere. This doesn’t normally happen for these kinds of trips, so we weren’t… when I sent you into the Memory, I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Well, it’s not like I can’t still be a Guardian,” Jack argued immediately, more just words than language with any thought behind them, hoping that the loudness would drown out the shrill scream of panic ringing somewhere in the back of his mind. “I mean—y’all are super old, and you’re still childhood Guardians." _What's a year, even, after centuries? It makes no difference?_ "Just because my body took a hit doesn’t mean that I can’t do my job.”

“No,” she agreed, ignoring his attempt at humor, at distraction, at deflection. “Your position is safe. Your magic will return, and you will start to feel more like yourself again, it’s just that… Jack,” Tooth sighed. “It may take some time to come to terms with this.”

“Why? I feel fine. I mean—apart from the fact that, you know, I feel like shit, and less than a day ago I was knocked out cold from dark magic on the floor of an underground cavern, and apparently lost, like, almost all of my magic from a joyride through what is conceivably the absolute worst experience of my life, but—“ he was going to throw up “—apart from that, I can, like. Talk again without my throat catching on fire.” He was starting to feel like he could maybe even sit up again, too, if he tried.

“Jack,” said Tooth. “Trust me. With things like this, after _centuries_ of, of standstill, it’s going to take some getting used to—“

The snow globe resting on the side table began to vibrate fiercely. Jack and Toothiana looked over to where North’s active profile was shouting silently at what appeared to be the yetis in his workshop. Wasn’t he supposed to be in Arendelle?

“TOOTH, WE NEED SUPPORT,” North called out as soon as Toothiana’s fingertips reached the glass. “BRING JACK IMMEDIATELY.”

“Jack’s only just barely woken up,” she pointed out, eyeing him fretfully. “He can’t move completely yet. How serious is it?”

“Is it—Pitch?” Jack called, fighting back a hacking, burning cough. _Fuck_ , his throat was too hot.

“NO, BUT IT IS URGENT,” North boomed. “COME SOON.”

The snow globe went quiet, and Jack and Toothiana were left staring at one another.

“How soon do you think you’ll be ready to stand?”

Jack grimaced, ignored the itchy heat in his veins, and wiggled his fingertips. “I don’t know? Maybe... soonish. How much longer do you think it will be before I’m ready to fly on my own?”

“I honestly don’t know. We’ll have to see how it goes. You’ll recover faster if you rest, so we will have to be careful while we’re at the shop. I’ve taken the liberty of encouraging Jacqueline, Jackie, and Jax to come meet us at the North Pole.”

“Don’t I need them to nurture the spirit of Fun while I’m away?”

“Yes, but you will need the additional presence of magic _more_. You created them from your magic, and thus they are still a part of you. Having sources of your own magic so nearby will only help.”

Jack shrugged. “Makes sense,” he said, and tried to sit up.

With Toothiana’s help, it was possible, but exhausting. He leaned an arm over his knee, and breathed heavily, trying not to heave. This was annoying.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” her hand was on his back. “If I’d have known—“

“I still would have gone in anyway,” he shut his eyes. “I don’t regret it.”

Toothiana didn’t respond immediately.

“Jack,” she began, so much more hesitant than a few moments ago, when she was taking charge. “Is there… I know it’s a lot to ask, considering all that you’ve been through these last few days, and the timing is awful, because we’re expected in the Workshop as soon as possible, but… is there…”

“What?”

“No, never mind. How do you feel?”

Jack inhaled, long and deep. “Better,” he answered truthfully.

“Ready to stand?”

Jack’s knees buckled before he got to his full height. Toothiana’s hands steadied his arms as she lowered him back down to sit on the bed. “You should drink more elixir.”

His smirk rose easily. “So I can pass out again?”

“Ha, ha. No, the other kind. I will get the girls to bring some more.”

“All right,” Jack nodded. She made a move to go summon the girls, but then they locked eyes, and Toothiana froze. “We have a lot of work to do,” he told her quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed, just as soft. “And at the top of the pile is your most important job… _rest_.”

“Tooth,” he said, automatic, and the nagging shard at the back of his mind, the one that is starting to scream, urges him to recognize what is happening, what he is being asked to do, what this _means._ “Not _now_? You’re kidding."

“Not in the slightest.”

“ _Tooth_ ,” he insisted, aghast. The pieces are falling into place. “After whatever happens in the North Pole, I have to go to Arendelle. Anna has probably already left—we have to help her.“

Tooth was staring at him strangely. ”Help her… remember?"

“Well,” Jack hesitated, but he was only slightly embarrassed. “If she hasn't already, yeah… She might have even already gained her memories back, for all we know, right? I mean, like—if a wall of ice spears doesn't jog someone's memories of a beloved sister having had ice powers once upon a time, then I don't know what will. But beyond that,” Jack added quickly, before she could interrupt, “She's going to go after her sister."

Toothiana had no reason to doubt, but she still asked, "You're sure?"

"She's probably already en route," and had no idea where to look. She had never left the castle before—not really. After a lifetime of waiting, Anna, Elsa—they both had the chance to leave the gates—for _this?_

"So what’s your plan? You want to go to her, and help her remember, and help guide her to Elsa, and... then what?"

"We'll figure it out from there,” said Jack, eyes fixed on hers. It was easier to talk past the fire. It felt colder now. Better. “This is at least the chance for Anna to reach out to her like she's always wanted,” Jack insisted. He had a sinking feeling that he was fighting a losing argument, even though he _knew_ he was right, so he kept going. “We just have to put her in a position where Elsa won't be able to shut her out, and then Anna will be able to talk her down."

"But… there is still the possibility that she may not be able hear you?”

"There is," and he was oddly prepared for it, even with everything, but at the same time, he didn't honestly think he needed to guard against it as much as he was. Something told him that Anna would probably remember at least the _idea_ of him.

( _For better or worse—  
_ _it tasted a bit like sherry_.)

"So how do you plan to jog her Memories, if she hasn’t gained them back by now?” Tooth asked. “Even after seeing her sister use magic firsthand?”

“Well, I… Oh shit. Wait. Jamie was reading up on fairy tales, before I left. Oh god, you've told him I'm okay, right? Jesus, I hope you told him, but you should also find out if he gleaned anything from that stupid storybook.” Toothiana was staring at him. "What?" he demanded.

"You haven't mentioned anything about...."

"About what?"

"About.... No. Not now. Later.”

"What?” his gaze hardened; it iced. “What—about getting Elsa to Believe in me again?"

Toothiana’s expression froze from shock, then slipped into something more reproachful, something gently defensive. “If Jamie already has and Anna might—Jack, is it really so hard to imagine?"

"Tooth,” Jack glared. “I’m not that naive.” _Anymore._

"The last thing I want to do is get your hopes up too high only to have them crash, Jack, but.... this is already so unusual, with the Turning Points and the Wisdom Memories and—"

"This isn't about me,” he countered, firm. “This isn't about me and Elsa. This is about Elsa, and her sister, and her kingdom, and what Pitch wants, and making sure he never gets it. Ever."

"All right."

Jack sighed, with ten times more of a headache than before, somehow. "All right, then. Back to Arendelle."

“ _No_ ,” insisted Tooth. “Back to the North Pole.”

“But… Toothiana!”

“Jack, you _heard_ North. He wouldn’t even explain the situation over the snow globe! It must be serious, especially if he called us back when you are so clearly not ready to move again.”

“I’m ready—I’m totally ready now! You can go to the North Pole and Sandy can stay in the Highlands and Bunny can stay in Berk and I can go to Arendelle and—“

“Jack, he called _both_ of us! You can argue all you want, but you are _injured_ , whether you feel it or not, and your body is going to take time to recover, so for once stop fighting so hard when people are trying to take care of you!”

Jack balked, “I am not fighting you!”

“Yes, you are! You _always_ are! I’ve said it before, and I will say it only once more in this lifetime, Jack, because I am _sick_ , and tired, so listen well: you were used to being the big brother in your human life, and then you were used to taking care of nobody but yourself, and then suddenly you were a Guardian and took care of _millions_ , but the point of being on this team is that we look out for each other, and I can’t do that if—“

Her jaw went slack, mouth agape, and her eyes grew cloudy. “Tooth?” he called, reaching out for her arm. “Tooth? Toothiana!”

She snapped back to herself just as Jack had all but half-sprawled onto the floor. She helped him back up as she shook her head to clear it. “Sorry,” she replied, completely breathless, completely distracted, as if the last few minutes of arguing had never happened. Jack’s grip on her arms were just as tight as hers were on his. “Sandy got the official Summons, but he can’t leave the Highlands yet because Merida is trying, and failing, to negotiate a peace treaty.”

“How—how do you know that?”

“Sometimes the snow globe takes too long for Sandy to communicate. Over the last few centuries, he’s developed his own means—he sent me a vision through a DayDream.”

Jack gaped at her. “He can _do_ that?”

Toothiana blinked at him. “You didn’t know?”

“No. Damn,” scoffed Jack. “Do you guys just keep sprouting more and more powers every century?” Sandy, _Pitch_ , North, Tooth, probably Bunny—

Toothiana blinked down at him, almost amused. “You will too, you know. You already have.”

 _Oh_ , thought Jack.

( _Oh_.)

But he wasn’t really concerned about that. Not at the moment.

“Right,” Toothiana coughed, straightened herself back up. “Enough of this. Elixir. You _need_ to get better. I will be right back. Don’t move!”

Jack settled deeper into his seat on the bed and stared blankly at the floor. First time he was actually, truly by himself since…

Jack swallowed.

It didn’t feel like broken glass anymore. How many hours had it been? What would it take for him to fly again? His frown deepened. _No snow globe, no portal, no flying_ —

A snarl ripped from his aching throat as he fell back against the mattress, two palms pressed firmly over his eyes. _Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it don’t think don’t think about it don’t don’t don’t—_ impossible.

Pitch Black was recruiting his Assignment, and Jack Frost was—for all intents and purposes—grounded.

“Shit,” he hissed, eyes burning.

He could hear Toothiana somewhere not too far away, maybe in one of the adjacent rooms, talking to her fairies. Probably brewing another batch of elixir and giving him what she suspected was some peace. Some time to mull over her words.

Jack glanced to the side table.

Toothiana’s snow globe was sitting atop it, forgotten.

He felt his gaze glide slowly over to the doorway—a large, looming arch. He didn’t know where this room was in the Palace, or who used it, or which room Toothiana was in, but he could hear her muffled, cheerful instructions to the girls. She was talking about the new batches of Memories that had been shipped in during their brief and informal meeting regarding Jack’s trip into the Memory.

She would probably never forgive him for this.

Before he could think twice about it, Jack lunged for both his staff and the snow globe at once, and in the same motion tossed the snow globe to the ground with—  “ _Princess Anna of Arendelle!_ ”

It was a stroke of last-minute inspiration to try summoning the portal towards Anna by name, and he wouldn’t know if it worked until he fell through it—which he did quite literally. Before he could let any trace of hesitation slip through his mind, Jack used what strength he had to stumble himself off the side of the bed and onto the floor, rolling his way into and through the portal. Jack didn’t have the luxury of checking to see whether Toothiana had come rushing back to the room at the sound of his call, because one second he was rolling sharply over hard mosaic tile and the next he was sprawling supine into a soft blanket of fresh snow.

The portal closed behind him with a flurry of light, and Jack was finally alone, in Arendelle.

Anna had waited long enough.

. * * * .

 


	219. - start dissolving -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _3/21/16_. [happy jelsa weekend 2k17](https://jelsaweekend.tumblr.com/post/156845429464/jelsa-weekend-march-2k17-end-of)! this here is my second (late) contribution for this round of **[@jelsaweekend](http://jelsaweekend.tumblr.com)**. the theme of this weekend is "end of winter," and ~~today's~~ the next prompt is: _dissolve_. official tumblr tags include: **#jelsa weekend 2017** , **#jelsa weekend** , and **#snowtpnetwork**. go check out all the kickass works this weekend! ♡
> 
> (for those of you who keep up-to-date on my life-happenings—via [tumblr](http://therentyoupay.tumblr.com) or otherwise—thanks for your patience with the lateness! i went on a whirlwind trip this past weekend to reunite with homestay family from 2004, and apart from not having access to reliable wi-fi, i was also very overcome with feelings. thank you for your patience!!)
> 
> un **BETA'd** for now! please let me know if you find any glaring mistakes, haha. 
> 
> thanks! ♡
> 
> (also, OH LOOK, WE ARE REACHING THE END, FOLKS)  
> (?!??!?!????!!!?)  
> (?!???!??)  
> (i don't believe it)

 

 

. * * * .

_\- start dissolving -_

. * * * .

 

Jack had landed in a small clearing.

For a long moment, Jack did not move. His head hurt, his nose burned, his throat was raw, and now, his eyes were stinging. It took Jack a moment to realize—it hurt to look up at the sky. It was too bright.

Since when was a winter sky too bright?

Finally, Jack tried to sit up, but not much happened. _Guess that’s what I get for using so much energy at once_ , he grimaced. Stealing ( _borrowing—_ ) another Guardian’s snow globe, catapulting oneself off the bed and through a magic portal, and landing in a whole bunch of snow while his skin still felt like it’s burning… so, all in all, perhaps not one of his brighter ideas.

But it had to be done.

Gingerly, Jack lifted himself up, inch by inch, onto his elbows. He rested on his forearms, his whole body trembling. His stomach muscles jumped and itched and ached with the effort it took to push himself up even a few inches off the ground, and then his locked elbows and shoulders took the brunt of what his core could not. Damn. This would be slow.

The world was bright and white and blinding, so much sharper than the soft golden hues of the palace. He didn’t recognize right away that his eyes were still squinting against it. That his body still felt _too warm_ even if it wasn’t burning, that the ground felt—actually—cold.

Anna was nowhere in sight, but if the snow around him was any indication, his snow globe summons had taken him directly into the mountains. Maybe she’d been traveling even faster than he’d thought? He had to get moving.

There was shuffling behind him, but it only turned out to be the wind in the pine trees, soft and hushed and eerily foreign. Jack’s eyes narrowed. Unless Jack was mistaken, there weren’t usually this many trees this far up the mountain?

It was some time before Jack started to feel like his body wasn’t a giant rock. After a while, his toes didn’t feel as sharp, his skin didn’t feel as tight, and every tiny stray speck of noise didn’t send his whole body rigid. Jack stared down at his knees, because they were the farthest points of his body he could see in the heavy drifts of snow. The burn inside his throat was receding, but the collar of his hoodie still felt too tight.

Jack Frost risked lifting up a hand to yank at it, leaving his body weight to bear down on his remaining arm. The resulting hiss of discomfort was emptied out into the clearing, evaporating into the dry, frigid air, caught by Jack’s ears alone. His jaw clicked to the side. At least his eyes were starting to adjust. It didn’t hurt to look at the world so much anymore.

 _Okay_ , he decided, wriggling his hidden toes in the snow, then his ankles. His forearms were starting to smart against the hard-packed ground, and his shoulders were aching from holding up his useless weight. The hems of his pantlegs caught uncomfortably along the bottoms of his calves, which was even more of a reason to get off his ass and start moving, if only his stupid limbs would cooperate—

The wind continued to call out through the trees, and just as Jack was awkwardly rolling over onto his hip, he looked up, and realized that the rustling wasn’t the wind in the trees at all.

There, in the small opening between the nearby trees, was a figure in green, frantically trying to brush off at least half a foot of snow from the capped sleeves of her dress. Tiny snow bursts fell away from her flimsy and inadequate cape. She didn’t seem to noticed anything… strange.

 _You should do something_ , he thought, but didn’t move. He was still resting awkwardly on his hip and forearm, the roll only halfway complete, but his other hand was laying deep inside a handmade print in an otherwise pristine blanket of winter. (Jack desperately tried to theorize: _If someone didn’t Believe_ , _they could see his breath, his frost, his magic, but never him, not his shape or his face or his voice, wouldn’t even see Jack’s shadow_ —and wasn’t _that_ fucking ironic—

— _would Anna see his handprint in the snow?_ )

For a ridiculous second, Jack Frost wondered if he should actually hide.

He was still contemplating it, when Princess Anna of Arendelle finally looked up.

“Oh,” she said, oblivious to Jack’s heart hammering inside his chest. That was it.

Jack was no longer trying to move. He was actually quite sure he could not.

 _What do you see?_ his heart called from his too-tight chest, still half-buried in the snow. Was it the ground that was cold, or was it or the memory of Pitch’s poison, or the realization that Jack was not prepared for this at all, that he’d expected to have more _time_ , that just because he’d rushed headlong through the portal didn’t mean that he thought he’d actually run _into_ —

“Are you all right?”

All right.

 _All right_ , she’d said. All right, all right, all right, all right _all right,_ _allrightallrightall_ —

And then his shoulder buckled and his weight pitched forward, and Jack toppled _hard_ , cheek-first into the snow.

“Oh! Ohhh!!”

 _Oh god,_ Jack had the semblance of sense to think _,_ skin full of snow, and then, just a little less sensibly: _Why does this have to be so mortifying?_

A small hand pulled— _pulled?!_ —at the shoulder within her reach— _no gloves? Anna, really?_ —and then Jack’s listless torso was twisting painfully towards a familiar, freckled face; two bright green eyes; a tell-tale streak of white alongside the temple; the most confused, comically uncertain face he’d seen since he last stole Bunny’s freshly-grown carrots right out of his newest garden in the West Ward the day they were intended for harvest. Jack was dreaming.

“You…” she said, expression unmoving, as dream-Jack meanwhile was overcome with the ill-timed and reasonable realization he was the only one who recognized they were both just… sitting, and lying, and _not_ moving out of the snow.

He held his tongue.

“You’re… are you…?”

“Hi, Anna,” he said, and stretched his face into the closest thing to a grin. The space between his neck and shoulder was still horrifically cramped from the awkward angle, but Jack didn’t have the heart or the means to shrug it off. His resulting wince reached across the divide and flitted onto her expression like she’d been struck in the face.

“You look…” Jack felt her gaze pour over his features, but couldn’t decide if it was more balm or burn. “You look so…”

 _You passed out,_ Jack’s brain told him. _You’re unconscious again. It was too much, and your body shut down, and now you’re alone in the mountains of Arendelle in the middle of a snowbank, and you’re dreaming. Anna is looking you in the face. You are clearly dreaming._

But it felt different than a dream… maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he’d just made up the whole thing in his head, some sort of vivid fantasy as he hung trapped somewhere between being awake and being unconscious? Was he inside— ( _Another Memory Box? Was he still just a shade in someone else’s story? But wait, no_ —) He was probably still in Toothiana’s palace, then: sleeping off the effects of whatever potion she whipped up for him. _Yes. That’s it._ A potion-induced hallucination. He was going to be so mad at Toothiana when he woke up, he decided. Even if he dreamed about stealing her snow globe and racing off and deliberately disobeying a direct summons—yes. So mad.

Still, the most fragile space in his ribcage had the sense to be uneasy about this conclusion—it wasn’t usually Anna he dreamed about.

Jack’s head was splitting open. There was too much, and, quite honestly, what did it matter? Jack had been thinking of Anna right before he slipped out, so. Here they were.  _Best to just roll with it._ Still, it was funny wasn’t it? Anna could only see him when she thought _she_ was dreaming and, conversely, Jack apparently saw her only in _his_ weird-ass dreams. Ha, ha, universe. What a funny joke.

They were only staring at each other. Jack hadn’t noticed the silence so much, but now it pressed in on his chest like a weight. Her bare hand was still gripping his shoulder. _Whatever_ , Jack decided, disoriented and disillusioned and all the other words that start with _dis-_ that he just couldn’t think of right now. He came to a stupid conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless:

_Oh, why the hell not?_

“As psyched as I am that you finally got to wear the fancy party dress,” he blabbed, peering up at her as best he could. “You should really have picked out some better footwear.”

The girl in front of him took an intake of breath so sharp he _felt it_ , so sharp he thought she’d see stars, and then Jack was forced onto the flat of his back in the snow, as the heavy weight burdening his chest became the shape of a young princess. _Oh_.

Oh, oh, _oh_.

“Jack!” he heard, muffled from the fluffs of snow that wrapped around his ears, as stinging snow dust fell into his eyes. “I wasn’t sure you’d come! It’d been too long! Also—how dare you insult my footwear! I wasn’t prepared for this! You don’t even _wear_ shoes!”

When his arms didn’t move to return the hug, Anna lifted herself up from her tackle to look down at him: imploring, uncertain, jubilant, apologetic, halfway to demanding—

“I can’t move.”

Anna scrambled back, giving him the space of all but a few inches, but the space did nothing, because Jack’s lungs were still heaving, his brain is still ringing with the rising sirens of _oh, oh, oh, oh, oh—_

Jack’s next few words were overtaken by a hacking, shuddering cough. She peered down, expectant and concerned and dazed and holy _fuck_ , was this actually happening?

“Are you okay?” she leaned over him, when he made no attempt to sit up. When he simply lied there and waited to see if the snow would consume him, or maybe, if the darkness got to him first.

Neither rose up to take him.

 _You’re awake_ , Jack’s brain told him, just before he realized he was crying.

Anna’s gasp alerted him to the brief moment before her fingers found his cheeks. The shuddering breath that flew past his lips almost made Anna’s hand retreat, but then gentle fingers brushed away the drops— _drops?? wet? here?—_ and at Anna’s soft murmurs of _what happened?_ and _where are you hurt?_ and _what should I do?_ all Jack could do was laugh, and laugh, and let the tears meet the snow.  
  


. * * * .  
  


“Jack,” she said, after a few moments, or an eternity, _who knows?_ “What should I do?”

There were a thousand ways to answer that question, but they all blurred to one single point: _Find your sister_.

The overwhelming sensations floating through him quickly faded, sobering like a fresh-cut ice chip to the face, but the tightness in his chest did not recede. They had work to do.

 _And now we can finally fucking do it_ , his brain, his muscles screamed.

Well.

“I… really _can’t_ move, actually,” Jack’s lips curved only as high as they would go, so who knew what his expression actually told. Anna, picking up the pieces to a puzzle with a picture he hadn’t bothered to look at yet, reached over again to brush away some of the snow that had fallen into his eyes. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least he wasn’t blinking down mountain water anymore. Which, now that he thought about it, was weird. Since when did snow get the idea to start dissolving on his skin? His eyelids twitched as Anna’s hands returned to her lap.

For a long moment, Jack wasn’t sure what to do or say. There were too many things he didn’t understand.

“I have so many questions!” Anna hissed out, at last, when she apparently could bear it no longer. She leaned so far over him she took up most of the space in his line of vision, set against a white backdrop sky. “Where did you come from? What took you so long? Where have you _been_ all this time? How did you know where I was? Do you know where _Elsa_ is? Why didn’t you come to the coronation? How come I haven’t seen you in _years_? Don’t you know what’s _happened?_ Why are you just lying there? What’s wrong?”

“I think,” Jack coughed, because his lungs were still bruised and his head was about to splinter open, “we should get out of the snow first.”

Anna tilted her head down at him. “Why would Jack Frost need to get out of the snow?”

His eyes fell shut.

( _There was a ringing in his ears,_  
 _wind and snow and winter,_  
 _the echo of his name,_  
 _again and again and again._ )

 _Jack Frost_ , he heard, from a girl of only eighteen in a capped-sleeve dress in the middle of the snow; _Jack Frost_ , he heard, and this time the voice was just four-years-old, bright like the sunrise, orange like the dawn, clear as a wide-open summer sky, and, “Jack?”

“I mean,” he rasped, then cleared his throat, rid it of the lump that was already there. “We should get _you_ out of the snow.” He blinked his eyes back open.

“Also,” he added, “I’m… pretty serious. I can’t really move.”

When Jack did, in fact, do nothing but lie there uselessly, grinning so stiff and awkward that his meager smile was becoming a physical pain, Anna seemed to finally spring into action. A bare hand slipped into the snow to dig beneath his shoulders, and then he was being pushed up into a sitting position so uncomfortable and so shaky he thought his stomach muscles might as well just split apart.

Anna huffed, and steadied him. “Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any _weirder_.”

Jack’s head was starting to spin. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe he should have called Jackie to head towards Arendelle to meet up with him. No. Jackie would only have worried. Jacqueline would have been better. She didn’t sympathize for his suffering, she would have forced him to keep up.

“What happened to you?” asked Anna, after a long moment. Jack’s gaze slid to hers.

“That’s… a very long story.”

And _oh_ , he thought.

If she only knew.

. * * * .  
  


“Hey,” she murmured, ducking down, trying to catch his eye.  
“I’ve got a pretty long walk ahead of me…  
Maybe you could… tell me some of the story along the way?”

Jack glanced to where her anklebones were red and raw in the snow.  
He could see the chill seeping easily through her white, wet stockings.

“Yeah,” he dismissed, his eyes on her little leather flats.  
“Maybe. But I wasn’t kidding about your shoes.  
Why didn’t you bother to grab boots before coming up here?”

Anna titled her head to look at him. “Up here?”

“Into the mountains.”

Anna’s lips parted. “Jack,” she said, slowly.  
“We aren’t… I haven’t reached the mountains just yet.”

Jack stared at her.

“This is… we’re still in Arendelle,” he heard, but it didn’t make sense.  
His gaze slipped to the surrounding pine trees, to the branches covered with snow.  
Dripping with icicles. There was snow, and he was sitting in an ocean of it,  
at least a foot and a half deep.

“This is… it’s summer,” Jack argued, but already his stomach was dropping,  
his chest contracting deep, the plea of forgiveness from _Mother Nature_ on his tongue,  
eyes wide, lips cracked, heart speechless.

“It… _is_ , technically,” said Anna, with a smile so weak it should have broken, but this was _Anna_ , so it’d never, it _couldn’t_ —

“This is—?”

“This,” Anna sighed, and stared down at the snow at his hip,  
suddenly refusing to meet his eye, “was my fault.”

This, Jack knew,  
was Elsa.

 

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"Shit."  
  


. * * * .

 

 


End file.
